


Hunger of the Pine

by utsu



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Birthday Party, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Explicit Language, First Kiss, Humor, M/M, Mild Peer Pressure, Mildly Possessive Derek, Monster of the Week, Mutual Pining, Pack Bonding, Pack Family, Pack Feels, Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-15 00:10:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 48,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4585491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/utsu/pseuds/utsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Normal. A word with meaning akin to water, slipping right through his fingertips. Elusive in the long-term; a flickering understanding he accepts and loses track of in a passing moment.</p><p>Normal had never, ever seemed an applicable term to a life ridden with werewolves.</p><p> <br/>or: the one where the pack figures out that Derek and Stiles are in love before Derek and Stiles do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles had never expected to be anything other than normal, if even that at all. What is normal? What does that even mean?

Stiles can rattle off a cookie-cutter definition, easy. Or he can talk about Sunday evenings spent at the dinner table across from his dad, with something delicious and hand-cooked in front of him. He can talk nonstop about loyalty to friends and family, the drab exhaustion of an overworked mind seeped in anxiety, the frustratingly high frequency of awkward terror boners, or the bow of a smile that rises over his lips whenever he thinks about Scott; about his friends.

Normal is an amalgamation of things that make sense to him on a day-to-day basis, and a completely different sort of experience on a completely different day-to-day basis to every other individual in the world. Normal is not a shared experience, not perfectly. It is not a science.

It’s more of an art. Stiles enjoys art, sometimes, when it’s not just a smattering of paint in globs and glitches—an all too familiar kind of chaos he sees every time he closes his eyes at night and tries to find rest, and instead, finds his mind on fire.

Minimalistic pieces are nice, sometimes, he guesses. If he had to give an objective answer. Minimalism is nice. Colors are nice, too. They’re also generally normal, too, right?

Normal. A word with meaning akin to water, slipping right through his fingertips. Elusive in the long-term; a flickering understanding he accepts and loses track of in a passing moment.

Normal had never, _ever_ seemed an applicable term to a life ridden with werewolves.

In fact, Stiles thinks as he hikes the strap of his backpack further over his shoulder, normal probably has no business being in the same room as him, considering how much weird shit he deals with on a daily basis. Werewolves. Kanimas. Werewolf _hunters_. Pack dynamics. Monsters of the day. That one time he had to take chemistry.

He could go on and on about all the ways he eludes the grasp of a normal life, unless he rearranges it, smashes it down and tears it up a bit with his human claws (fingers, nails) and comes out with something vaguely normal for _him_.

Like attending pack meetings for a pack he is not and will not ever officially be a part of; there’s rules upon _rules_ in this new world he’s been living in for the past however many years. He’d know—he’s the research expert. That’s his _thing_.

Scott keeps things civil. Erica keeps things sassy. Kira is a constant reminder of the importance of kindness, and of diligence—in an adorably bubbly, badass kind of way. Isaac and Boyd provide awkward and dryly comical insulation, respectively. Deaton aids and abets. Derek rips out throats. Stiles researches.

Walking over a sodden log recently drenched as he makes his way towards the near-abandoned house just up ahead, Stiles takes a moment to sniff the air. He pulls a quizzical expression, nose scrunched and lips frowning, as if he can actually smell anything other than wet forest. The rain drips down through the canopy above him in small streams, soft as mist, all-encompassing. Fog is heavy enough around him that he can barely see where he’s going, and wow wouldn’t it be nice if he could, like, _smell_ his way through it or something. Or even listen his way through. He’s a fantastic listener!

Alas, Stiles Stilinski is still undeniably human.

The house isn’t much further, though, and before he knows it he’s breaking through the fog and staring up at the dilapidated Hale house, still rising from the ashes, even after all this time. Stiles knows for a fact that the paneling on the inside is even more charred than the exterior, though it’s hard to imagine. The house itself was, once upon a time, massive and luxurious. A house built for a family big enough to fill it completely, a house nestled and lavished with comforts.

Stiles doesn’t like to think on it too much, if he can help it. It’s just too damn _sad_.

He glances up with one eye squinted, staring into the cloudy sky, gray as smoke. His face gets pelted with raindrops, now unhindered by treetops, but he’s unbothered. His backpack jangles as he jostles, and he hears Scott’s voice inside the house before he’s even got a foot on the first step of the veranda.

He heads through the front door to where his friends are waiting, feeling some indefinable sense of peaceful calm that reads an awful lot like familiarity—like _normalcy_ —settle through his usually too-tight chest.

He smiles.

 

✧

 

“We have _got_ to stop meeting here like this,” Stiles says, playing up the irony of the words as he turns over his shoulder and waits for Scott to get up from Derek’s battered couch. The thing has seen better days. “Honestly, why do we have to meet _here_? Like, okay, I know it has heavy werewolf-y meaning and all that, since it’s Derek’s family home, but he has that huge warehouse place now, right? Why are we not meeting in there with snacks and, I don’t know, having movie nights instead of this boring class discussion stuff?”

“Aw, come on, Stiles,” Scott needles, stretching. “Cut him some slack. He feels happy here.”

Stiles’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes wide. “Who feels happy? You think Derek Hale is _happy_ here? Listen, I know you have werewolf super senses and all that but when was the last time you had your eyesight checked? I’m honestly concerned.”

Scott frowns at him, shouldering him aside a little as they walk through the doorway at the same time. Stiles doesn’t mind it, not even when it causes him to ram a little into the doorframe hard enough to knock the ball of his shoulder with enough force to bruise, but nothing bad enough to incite even a hiss of pain. He bruises easy, and he’s used to it. Scott has wide shoulders and an adorably clumsy nature.

“Maybe happy wasn’t the right word,” Scott admits, his smile small. “He’s, I don’t know, comfortable here. It’s his family home, and fire or not, it’s where he grew up. He has to have a lot of good memories from here too, man.”

“Whatever you say,” Stiles says. “I still don’t understand why we can’t have these meetings in the warehouse. It’s massive, it’s got a lot of open space, and hey! _Plenty_ of room for discussions. We can even sit in a huge circle and hold hands and—”

“Do you _ever_ ,” a voice suddenly starts, directly behind them. “Shut up?”

Stiles jumps, though he pretends afterwards that he most certainly had _not_ , and makes a face. Scott turns smoothly, his smile lifting a little in amusement as they glance up the patio stairs to where Derek is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his muscular chest. Stiles resents that—his chest, for one, the fact that it’s not just a chest, really, but a _muscular_ chest, for two, and also just because he can. That’s just how it is.

Derek scowls at them, which isn’t surprising or unsettling, not yet. Stiles is relatively unaffected—he’s seen quite a few Derek scowls in his life, and that’s not to say that he’s _immune_ , but he’s definitely practiced in the art of not becoming terrified every time Derek turns to him with an expression like a fast-approaching grave.

Stiles gestures vaguely with his hands, bobs his head out a little. “Hey, the meeting is over, I can officially talk as much as I want. You’re lucky I stay relatively quiet during the meetings; otherwise I’d be like. Rebel without a cause, party of one. Instead, I’m more like Toeing The Line Man, Sometimes Rebellious, Usually In Line, party of one.”

Derek’s grimace is a thing of beauty. Literally, it’s a work of art and it’s also beautiful because, well, _he’s_ beautiful and it’s really just not fair that he can make such a mopey expression look so good. Stiles guarantees that if he has ever scowled, it has not looked _anything_ like that. He doesn’t even want to know _what_ it looks like, actually.

Derek’s jaw clenches, and Stiles wonders for an incredulous moment if he is reading his thoughts.

“You call your participation in the meetings ‘relatively quiet?’”

Scott snorts and Stiles thinks, _traitor_.

“You don’t even know,” Scott laughs, reaching out to pull lightly at Stiles’s shoulder, leading him away from the house, a gentle insistence. Stiles goes with him, pliable because he knows Scott has to get back home for a tutoring session, and Stiles is so proud of his newly turned leaf that he doesn’t fight him. He does, however, glare over his shoulder and point at Derek with pinky and pointer finger, from his eyes and back.

Derek doesn’t even blink.

Once they’re far enough out of earshot that Stiles is fairly certain Derek won’t be able to hear them—he’s not entirely certain because Derek being an alpha basically means that all of his senses are on steroids and can do things even he can’t understand—he turns to Scott and sighs, as loud as he can.

“The almighty leader,” he begins, voice pitched high, “has been in fine fighting form lately. Like, more so than usual.”

Scott’s nodding his head, his muscled arms swinging faintly at his sides as they make it through the breach in trees and find Stiles’s jeep sitting there, as beautiful and untouched albeit slightly wetter than it had been when he’d left it.

“Yeah,” Scott agrees slowly, speculative. “He’s been a little on edge lately.”

“A little?” Stiles squeaks, shaking his head.

Scott smiles, amused. “Okay, a lot on edge. Like majorly on edge.”

Stiles, happily appeased, nods his head as he gets into the driver’s seat of his jeep. Scott crawls into the passenger seat beside him and slams the door a little harder than Stiles would’ve liked, but he only cringes, mostly lets it slide. Scott has been exhibiting strange spikes in his werewolf attributes, like spurts of strength that are even surprising to him, or depth of smell that’s almost on par with Derek’s. Stiles isn’t certain, but he has ideas about it.

Ideas along the lines of _true alpha_ and also, maybe, the fact that Scott had seemed to get these spikes in werewolf strength right after submitting himself to Derek and officially becoming one of the pack. It was as though just by making a promise to Derek, accepting the rules and regulations that come with being a part of Pack Hale, he became physiologically happier. And as a sweet side dish: stronger. In several regards.

“What’s his deal?” Stiles wonders aloud as they pull out onto the main road, driving steadily but slowly in the questionable weather conditions. The sky has been a confusing toil of clouds and grumbles for a few days now, without any sign of relenting. Stiles can’t remember the last time he’d seen the sun clearly, though he definitely recalls the frequent piercing patches of blue intermittently spread throughout the cloud cover. Scott, glancing up into the canopy of gray, taps his fingers against the doorframe, surprisingly contemplative.

“He was fine tonight, but man, you should’ve seen him the other day.” Scott looks at him and shakes his head, as if whatever form Derek had been in had been bad enough to not need a verbal explanation at all. The _look_ spoke volumes. “I think he’s stressed.”

“Alpha duties?”

“Maybe, but I don’t really think so?”

“He’s kinda just like that, though. Stressed. That’s sort of his thing, right?”

“Mm,” Scott hums, but there’s a stubborn line to his jaw that Stiles is familiar with, one that means he thinks there’s more to it than what they’ve got. Usually, Stiles would continue to hash it out with Scott, to joke and jibe together until they return home, but for once he keeps his mouth shut and turns the music up a bit, letting the rumbling of his jeep drown out in something electronic and awful. His favorite.

Scott keeps to himself the entire ride back to his place, but when he steps from the jeep he turns and looks back through the rolled-down window, studying Stiles’s face intently. At first Stiles doesn’t really notice how weird it is and kind of just stares back at him, eyes heavy and face bored. But then a minute passes and he realizes he should be weirded out, so he’s _weirded out_ , and his lips open to ask Scott if there’s something on his face, probably frosting from the cupcakes he’d made and brought to the meeting, when Scott shakes his head and smiles, that strange expression slipping away.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks, and Stiles nods.

“You know it!”

He watches Scott jog up to his house as he absentmindedly rubs his arm over his lips, just in case there _is_ something there. Scott clears seven paved steps in a single leap without a single line of strain in his body and turns to wave, giving Stiles the okay to head home.

Before he pulls back onto the road, he pops his visor down and looks at himself in the little mirror there, touching his high cheekbones, his pert nose, the bow of his lips. There’s nothing on his face but his face, and that could honestly be reason enough to stare in bewilderment. Surprising, coming from Scott, but Stiles wouldn’t be surprised.

Story of his life.

 

✧

 

Things have been relatively calm for a relatively decent amount of time, especially in Beacon Hills, which means that it’s definitely about time for something to go terribly wrong.

It happens when Stiles is in the middle of a calculus exam; comes in the form of his phone vibrating in his pocket, making his entire leg shake. When he checks it and finds a startling message from Scott, he’s up and out of class before his teacher can even get his name from her mouth.

The foreboding text message is only the beginning of annoying things that start to happen. First, there’s the mention of a pair of kids in the forest near an area Scott had said there maybe-possibly-definitely was an unknown creature lurking around; one that, according to Isaac, smells appalling enough to be anything but good news. And who is Stiles to judge Isaac’s danger scenting abilities? Okay usually he would totally judge, because Isaac is the most puppy of all the wolves and Stiles, being one step below him on the totem pole as the only resident human of a werewolf pack that they know of, likes to give him a hard time.

But then he gets clarification from Boyd, and he trusts him with his life and his favorite hoodie, even if he is only slightly less pack pup than Isaac. Erica’s sarcastic message is only another impending omen. But then comes the final nail in the coffin: Derek says the scent is new and strange and dangerous, and Stiles believes him in a heartbeat. Dude’s a _wolf_ , through and through.

Next, there’s the frantic phone call Stiles gets from Scott as he’s speeding down the highway heading towards the coordinates that Scott sent him, with the overall daunting message: _we lost it_.

After pulling to the side of the road only to curse and debate whether or not he should keep going towards the coordinates and meet up with the pack, or turn back and find some place with wifi so he could maybe _research_ the damn thing based off of Derek’s descriptors, his decision is made for him in the form of a young kid’s scream.

It’d been just close enough that Stiles could pinpoint the kid’s location, and it had been a no-brainer what he needed to do.

This is exactly how Stiles finds himself covered in blood, sweat, and dirt, running through the forest with an unconscious preteen in his wiry arms and a screeching roar close enough behind him to be his shadow. He has no idea where the other kid is—Scott had said _kids_ —but he doesn’t have the time or the luxury to stop and look around, not with that thing intent on feasting upon his flesh and bones.

He runs as fast as he can, cursing under his panting breath as the kid flops around lifelessly in his arms. There’s a gash on the boy’s arm, and a cut on his forehead that’s been bleeding nonstop onto Stiles for far too long to be anything but a source of bone-deep apprehension. It doesn’t look life threatening, but it definitely doesn’t look _good_.

“Oh, God,” he chokes, stumbling over an upturned root and only managing to save himself from falling down with sheer force of will. The rain has been off and on and is thankfully currently _off_ , but what with it having recently been _on_ , everything under Stiles’s already clumsy feet is slippery as ice. He’s almost gone down several times, just barely managing to keep the boy from being crushed between his chest and the ground, but he isn’t sure how much longer he can do this. The boy is heavy for a kid, or maybe Stiles is just weak, which, he wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case, but he favors the former line of reasoning. For obvious reasons. “Where the hell is everybody?”

The words don’t even make it completely from his mouth when he’s barreled into from behind, the force powerful enough to knock him clear off his feet. He tries to cradle the boy to his chest, to turn as much as he can to protect him from the fall and his body. It’s difficult and he doesn’t fully succeed, only manages to turn enough to land on his hip and ass with the boy flying from his grasp. He feels the impact quake through his entire skeleton, pain centering on the crest of his hip, but he pushes through it with a cry until his body is protectively shielding that of the young boy’s.

He’d failed to protect the boy from crashing to the ground, but he doesn’t feel altogether too horrible about that simply because if he hadn’t—if he _hadn’t_ , then the boy would’ve been the first thing that monster found. This way is better, no matter how one looks at it.

Because this way? This way the boy is hidden under his body, pressed heavily into the muddy ground beneath them, but with Stiles as a solid, steadfast wall between him and the shrieking creature. Stiles glances up at it, his heart in his throat, hammering out an emergency rhythm, silently calling to anyone who might hear it. His hands shake, but he stares resolutely at the creature and ignores the stinging pain in his hip, the sudden sharp burn along his left shin. He smells the tang of blood and the putrid stench of the creature, something humanoid but rotting and covered in worms, and gags. Its teeth are brown and sharp and getting closer and closer as it gets back onto it’s feet and prepares to lunge at him.

The thing is easily, _easily_ the most disgusting creature that Stiles has ever seen, and he’s seen a lot of gross shit. If it isn’t the decomposed skin or the rotten teeth, it’s the pulsing eyes and the rancid smell, and the worms. God, the _worms_.

Stiles feels lightheaded. His vision is swimming and his arms and shoulders ache from carrying the kid, from running with the kid, and he swears there isn’t a part of him that isn’t hurting. He’d only tripped a few times, only gone down once, but it’d been enough to slice open his shin, surely the cause of the burning sensation. His lungs ache, his chest tight, his brain a constant disjointed stream of frightened screams as the creature finally gets its bearings back and turns those creepy eyes back on him, too-wide lips lifting at the corners in a triumphant grin.

“Laugh it up, wormhead!” he shouts, or at least he thinks he does, everything’s sort of swirling now. He wonders if he’s having an anxiety attack, wonders if that’s the reason he can’t breathe, can’t think; this is quite possibly the absolute worst timing he’s ever experienced. “ _Worms_. What the _fuck_.”

The creature inhales—and how frustrating, that Stiles is about to be eaten by a creature he hasn’t even had the time to research; doesn’t even know the name of, what an embarrassing mark on his résumé—and gets slammed into by something massive and furry and—

“Oh thank God,” Stiles cries, voice shaking as he lifts heavy eyelids, watching Derek tear into the creature with claws like razorblades. He’s vicious and swift, wolfed out and roaring. The creature is only surprised for a moment, reassesses the situation far too quickly, and then its attacking Derek with a kind of sheer desperation that sickens Stiles. It leaps until Derek’s pressed under the weight of it, and moves with enhanced speed to snap its jaws inches away from his face. He wraps his clawed hands around the throat of it, baring his teeth aggressively, right back in its face. A moment later and Isaac, Boyd, and Scott break through the trees, all of them wolfed out, all of them roaring for blood.

They’re a beautiful wave of color against the drab backdrop of gray sky and earthy-hued forest; blurs of hoodie red, jean blue, and in Isaac’s case, bright orange t-shirt. Stiles could kiss them.

For a flickering moment, he wonders where Erica is, and if she’s okay, before he’s distracted again with watching as Scott knocks the creature off of Derek and slams his shoulder into the gut of it, until he rolls over it, and then rolls free. He turns and heads straight for Stiles and the boy, then, not even looking back to make sure he isn’t attacked in retaliation—he trusts Derek, trusts his pack too much to doubt them.

And he’s right about that—they all cut it off as it lunges for him, crashing it backwards and into the mud, claws tearing as Derek’s voice, guttural and deep, shouts out.

“Do _not_ let it bite you! Not even once!”

Stiles doesn’t have the energy to think about what that could possibly mean. He hopes that Derek is just being extra careful and protective, and a part of him sincerely believes that could definitely be the reason. The other part of him is suspicious without a concrete reason to be; he ignores that part of him in lieu of looking up at Scott’s swift approach. He lands by Stiles’s side and kneels, searching first his face, and then his body, looking for wounds. It’s pretty obvious where they are, and that they need attention, but Stiles gestures to the boy in his shadow and grunts, “He needs a medic, Scott. Bad.”

Scott’s already nodding, but he says, “So do you.”

Before Stiles can protest, there’s a high shriek of pain, one that sounds too wolfy to be the creature, and it makes Scott tense. Stiles’s heart clenches in his chest, concern lacing through him like a drug. Scott shakes his head, though, knowing Stiles well enough to predict the coming protests.

Scott shoulders himself under Stiles until he has him perched around the back of his neck, a fireman’s hold. Alternatively: a fashionable human scarf.

Scott says, “Hold on to my neck, Stiles. Can you do that? Don’t let go.”

Stiles doesn’t mention how tired he is, or how his arms feel like spaghetti noodles. He just holds on and tries to keep holding on, as the crashing sounds of fighting and roaring fade, moving further away, until all that’s left is the echo of violence through the trees. Scott carefully kneels, lifting the boy into his arms, trusting Stiles on his shoulders, a brave and possibly foolish thing to do.

Stiles really doesn’t want to plummet to the ground, though, so he reaches deep inside himself for the last vestiges of his strength and actually manages to hold on while Scott hurries back towards the road, where Stiles’s jeep is still parked. They make it in record time, though the jostling of Scott’s movements have thoroughly upset every wound Stiles has. He watches the trees pass by in bumpy irregular patterns, bark every shade of ruddy brown and moistened gray. There’s no sign of wildlife around them, not visibly, but even Stiles can hear the shrill calls of ravens overhead, and the continuous chiming of insects in the undergrowth. Focusing on the passing scenery helps him forget his wounds and how painful they are, but he can’t manage to forget that if he’s feeling like he’s been run over by a truck, then the boy has to be feeling ten times worse, at least.

When they breach the tree line Scott’s and Stiles’s eyes both land on the jeep, parked haphazardly on the side of the road, tail end still partway in the street, emergency lights flashing. Stiles doesn’t even remember turning them on.

Scott crouches low and helps him down, positioning him by the front tire so that he’s supported in an upright position, and then he sets the boy down so that his head is in Stiles’s lap. With one hand, Scott reaches out and takes the pain away from the boy, his veins turning black, the purest form of magic Stiles has ever seen. With the other, he pulls out his phone and calls Deaton, eyes staring unblinkingly into the forest.

Stiles wonders if he can hear the fight, if he’s monitoring it from this distance, worried. He probably is; Stiles would be.

The phone call is short and clipped, especially for Scott, and that tells Stiles one of two things: that either Scott has recently gotten into a disagreement with Deaton, which is incredibly unlikely, or he is more than just a little worried but rather outright anxious about the pack members he had left behind in order to secure Stiles and the boy’s safety far from the creature.

Stiles knows anxiety. He knows what it feels like to have it licking up every vein in your body, torching you from the inside out, the worst kind of unappeasable burn. He knows how it takes, and takes, and takes, and never gives anything back but pain and descent, so the moment Scott hangs up the phone and turns immediately back to the forest, Stiles tells him to go.

“Can’t,” Scott snaps, then turns to Stiles, jaw loose and mouth slack, immediately apologetic. “Sorry, man, but I _can’t_.”

He doesn’t even have to explain it. Stiles knows, without having to ask, that this had been an order cast down from an alpha; not Derek asking Scott to do this one thing, but alpha Derek Hale, commanding his beta to protect these two lives regardless of the circumstances.

Stiles doesn’t know if he should be more touched or frustrated. Maybe if it had been anyone else but Scott—but no, that’s not true either. Anxiety is a curse, a sickness he doesn’t wish on any of his friends, regardless of whether or not he likes them anywhere near as much as he likes Scott. With this in mind, he decides that he’s leaning towards the latter, towards frustration, and he’s going to have _words_ with a certain alpha when they all survive this mess.

Stiles does not have the ability to take away any of Scott’s pain, or anxiousness. So he does what he can, with what he has: he shares the brunt of it without knowing what’s going on miles through those trees, hoping that it’s not as bad as Scott’s tensed shoulders and fisted hands seem to implicate that it is.

The clouds shift enough for sunlight to peer through and cast the closest trees in gold; at the same time, Scott, who hasn’t moved an inch since they’d made it to the jeep, allows his shoulders to finally, abruptly wilt under a heavy sigh. He blinks a few times, ascertaining something Stiles has no way of knowing, and turns to him with a tight smile.

“The fighting’s over.” He tilts his head, confused. Then: “Shit.”

“It went well, then,” Stiles says sarcastically, nodding his head. “Fuck.”

“It got away. I don’t know how, but I don’t hear it anymore. Derek and the others are heading over now. Deaton should be here any moment.”

“Good. Great. Listen,” Stiles sighs, eyes closing as he deflates against his tire. “If it comes back? Punch it in the face. Just, right in the face. For me.”

“Sure thing.” Scott replies, with far more steel and much too little amusement for Stiles to let his guard down. He glances at his friend from the corner of his eyes, lifts a hand to grasp his bleeding bicep. He watches the bead of sweat drip down Scott’s sideburn, knows it isn’t a raindrop, and bites at his lip in worry. He’s not good with this kind of situation, tensed silences, so he does what he always does: he fills the space.

“Worms.” Stiles grunts, shaking his head. He flicks his gaze over the trees, wondering which section the rest of the pack will emerge from. There’s a raven sitting on a low-hanging branch a ways away from them, eerily quiet. Watchful. Stiles glares at it. “I can’t fuckin’ believe it.”

“Definitely the grossest thing I’ve ever seen,” Isaac says, as he breaches the tree line and heads straight for the young boy. He falls to his knees and presses his fingertips to the laceration on the boy’s forehead, and the bruise forming on his forearm; the veins of his arms turn black. Tears form in his eyes but don’t fall; he clenches his jaw so tight it’s a wonder his teeth don’t shatter. His every touch is so gentle, so careful, so _controlled_ —as if he’s afraid that he might hurt the boy just by being near him—that Stiles has to look away.

He knows Isaac’s story. He knows and maybe he won’t ever understand, not the way Isaac does, but he knows enough. Isaac usually avoids children at all costs, fearful of what he’s capable of—he’d once said that he has monster blood in his veins, rooted so deep he can never upend them. He’d been in the corner of some party at the time, and Stiles had come over, albeit a little warily—they aren’t the closest of friends, after all—and something in Isaac had broken free that night, loosening his lips, hitching him open enough to let slip a single, sad misconception that speaks volumes of how he views himself.

Isaac, well. There’s a lot of vulnerability in him, an endless, depthless ocean of trauma he’s constantly drowning in. If he doesn’t feel comfortable around kids, at least not yet, fearful of his nature, then who is Stiles to judge him? The fact that Isaac had approached this boy without a single hint of hesitation in him, knowing that the boy is injured and hurting, knowing that he could lessen the pain? It showed a depth of vulnerability in him that wasn’t for anyone else to see. Even if Stiles has a clearer idea of Isaac, because of that strange night.

It’s just not his place to look.

When he glances away, his eyes find Derek coming through the tree line, supporting Boyd as he stumbles on his one good leg beside him. Derek doesn’t seem bothered by the added weight, not even while holding up someone as big as Boyd. He doesn’t even seem to notice that he’s bleeding in several places, that there’s a gash along the line of his cheekbone that’s dripping onto his neckline. He just seems _pissed_. Stiles understands, sympathizes, relates. All of that and a bag of chips.

“What the hell is it?” Scott demands, glancing over his shoulder as headlights appear down the road, before pulling in beside them. Deaton gets out of the driver’s seat already holding a hefty duffle bag, frowning at the sight of them.

Derek snarls, “A rugaru.”

“A ruga-what?” Scott asks, at the same time that Stiles whispers, “ _Fuck_.”

“A rugaru,” Deaton says, tone calm even as he kneels beside Scott and Isaac and rummages through his bag to get the necessary materials. “Is a creature that was born human, but has some kind of genetic mutation that causes it to transform into what you surely just witnessed.”

“They’re cannibals,” Stiles adds, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Literally this is our lives. A _rugaru_. Out of all the fucked up monster things out there.”

Deaton nods, sympathetic in an expressionless, apathetic sort of way. Derek’s scowl is heavy enough it’s liable to fall to the ground. Isaac and Scott are still taking the pain from the boy, but he’s starting to come back to himself and the gash on his arm isn’t pretty. There are tears in his eyes before he’s even fully conscious, and then when he realizes that he’s surrounded by strangers, a few of which having black veins, he inhales a breath that’s undeniably reserved for a scream.

Stiles’s heart squeezes up, eyes flickering to Isaac’s face, suddenly pale and stricken, but then Scott, beautiful, tenderhearted and trustworthy Scott, brushes some of the boy’s hair away from his face and quietly shushes him.

“It’s okay,” he says, tone soothing, like he’s talking to a small animal. “You’re gonna be okay. We’re here to help you, okay? This is Deaton, he’s a doctor. Well…”

“A veterinarian, actually,” Deaton corrects, showing the boy a small smile. “I usually take care of animals. You’re a special case.”

“Yeah,” Scott says, “and this is Isaac, and Derek, and Stiles. Stiles is the one who saved your life.”

Stiles removes his arm from over his eyes and shakes his head, smiling at the young boy, whose eyes seem too large for his face. They’re big and green and they look so much like Derek’s it’s uncanny. The difference between them is that the boy’s hair, and the eyelashes surrounding those eyes, are the color of dust.

“Not really,” he says, shrugging his sore shoulders. “I just ran us through the woods and fell down a lot.”

Scott frowns, preparing to say something contrary, when Derek, of all people, interjects.

“If you hadn’t been there, this kid would be dead. He’d be _dead_ , Stiles.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles snaps, frowning up at him. “Don’t say that in front of him!”

“Smooth,” Boyd laughs, low and quiet and barely audible from under Derek’s arm. Derek frowns down at him, disapproving, and in that space of time where Stiles isn’t pinned under Derek’s intense stare he lets himself hear those words again. Derek Hale, praising him, his words a living warmth moving through Stiles’s chest. They’re almost a compliment, really, and coming from Derek? Stiles wonders if he’s actually not dead after all.

“My brother,” the boy suddenly says, sounding like the words are being choked out of a too-tight throat. “My little brother was with me. Where is he? Is he okay? Is he alive?”

He’s frantic, his eyes wide and flickering, and Boyd is the first to soothe him.

He says, “We found him, he’s okay. He’s alive. He’s with my friend Erica; she’s keeping him safe.”

The boy looks into Boyd’s eyes with speculation, with suspicion, enough to make Stiles wonder what kind of past this kid has, what kind of lifestyle has led to such a steely gaze, unwavering and unafraid.

“I want to talk to him. I want to see him.”

“He’s at the hospital,” Scott’s voice is soft as a breath. Soothing. “He’s okay, but he needs a few stitches on his shoulder. We’ll take you to see him as soon as possible, okay?”

The boy glances between them, eyes lingering on Derek but not in the terrified, distrustful way that Stiles might expect for him to react with. Derek’s covered in blood and wounds and he’s standing there with his arms crossed over his beefy chest, scowl perfectly in place. But the kid holds his glare and doesn’t flinch, almost seems to trust him despite not having heard a word from him.

He glances over Boyd and Scott, and _there’s_ that distrust, so surprising when aimed at the two of them, and Stiles has to wonder again at the life the boy had lived up to this moment. Was there some part of him, ingrained deep and true, that could see honest people clearly without having ever heard a word from them? Was that why he seemed to trust Derek already? Because he could tell with a glance and minimal study that Derek is not the kind of person to lie?

Before Stiles can wonder over that any more, the boy suddenly glances up at Stiles, abrupt enough to expose Stiles’s wide-eyed expression of surprise.

“Stiles?” he asks, his name coming out slow and careful, like the boy doesn’t want to mess it up in any way. Stiles wants to glance at Scott, at Boyd, to get some answers through their expressions because he doesn’t know a damn thing about the kid’s brother; he’d been so worried about the pack that he’d forgotten another kid was even in _play_. But the boy stares at him, wide-eyed and trusting, twin pools of endless green that make his heart clench tightly in his chest.

He feels himself nodding, moving a hand up to clear some of the stray hairs away from the boy’s face, almost tenderly. The gesture feels awkward to him; he’s not used to being around kids. But the boy doesn’t seem to feel it, or mind, he just continues staring up at Stiles with those too-wide eyes and that same trusting face that makes Stiles’s chest feel tight.

It’s too easy, then, to want and need to soothe this young kid’s worries. Stiles admires his grit, and his calm in this situation, even if he had been prepping to scream just a few minutes ago. The kid is strong.

“Don’t worry, little guy.” He says, smiling down at him. “We’ll get you to your brother.”

The boy listens to the words, lets them sink in good and deep, and then he smiles. His crooked teeth are precious, Stiles thinks, and what a weird thought to have in the middle of the forest surrounded by werewolves and covered in blood, with a monster on the loose and a kid by his side. Derek moves for the first time in a long time, stepping closer to peer at the kid with something like curiosity. His nostrils flare, not in the angry way, but in the scenting things kind of way.

Stiles is so not going to examine how he knows the difference between Derek’s nostril flares. Instead, his mind jumps back to Derek’s last words to him. He can’t keep thinking about them, or the fact that Derek was the one to say them, or the fact that he’s now feeling warm enough that he might be blushing, because he’s going to embarrass himself. He’s known for years that he’s attracted to Derek Hale; who wouldn’t be? Every inch of him is sculpted and tapered and lithe; and his _eyes,_ mystic green pools of expression, the most beautiful things Stiles has ever seen in his life.

Even with all that, Stiles can admit if only to himself that he also sort of admires Derek. The guy has been through so much tragedy, had so much trauma ingrained into his character, and yet even with all of that thrown into the mix, he comes out this strong, loyal leader that they all needed. Even when he’d been all alone, his entire family taken from him forever, when all he’d had was himself and his memories—most of them tragic—he’d still been strong.

And then, later, when they had needed him—when _Scott_ had needed him, and then Isaac, and Erica, and Boyd, well. He hadn’t left them out in the cold like he could have. Instead, he’d housed them, taught them, nurtured them as pack mates in the only ways that he knew how. And if Stiles is being completely honest, there are a lot of things that Derek has done wrong, but the way that he sticks by his friends, through thick and thin, even after some of them have left _him_ behind? There’s something there to be admired. Something powerful and beautiful and worth loving.

Not that Stiles is _in love_ with him. Of course not, because that wouldn’t just be so typical Stiles, would it? He’d moved from Lydia, the most unattainable beautiful goddess he’d ever seen, only to land his heart on someone even _more_ unattainable, and gorgeous, and this time with a few twists: like frequent aggression, silence, and a past filled so completely with pain that trying to do anything with Derek always becomes a series of complicated steps towards any kind of goal. Also: being a werewolf. An _alpha_ werewolf.

Typical Stiles.

And it’s not like the whole (alpha) werewolf bit is really the final nail in the coffin, either, right? Because of course it’s not. Derek is unattainable in the same way that a person might try to bottle the sun; too hot to handle. Also too big, probably. Stiles doesn’t _mean_ for that to turn into a dirty thought but whenever he thinks about Derek and all of those muscles and the chiseled line of his abs and the way his back flexes when he _lifts_ things—well. He gets a little distracted.

But okay, in his defense, it’s a really stellar distraction. Derek Hale is a lot to look at and he’s a lot to handle, too, but he’s also the only person in the world that seems to understand Stiles’s need for commitment. Not commitment in the relationship sense, though that would be incredibly nice and he would so not turn away from that!

He means it in terms of presence, in terms of bonds. Stiles _needs_ Scott, and he _needs_ his dad; it isn’t a desire or an exaggeration. Without them, he’d be lost. He cannot lose them.

Derek is intimately familiar with loss.

And maybe that’s what draws Stiles to him, somehow; that Derek is a survivor. Maybe that’s where the admiration begins, where it had room to grow and bloom and foster something bigger and stronger than mere admiration. Where it grew out of it’s pen and curled around the rungs of Stiles’s ribcage, pressed against his heart like butterfly wings, hesitant and flickering.

Love snuck up on Stiles and left him no room to put up any safeguards.

Might as well call him like you see him: the perpetually unrequited lover.

Because there is no way, no way in hell, that someone like _Derek Hale_ would ever fall in love with someone like Stiles Stilinski. He’s too—everything. He’s too much of everything he shouldn’t be and too little of what he needs to be. His mind is a constant pit of chaos and his heart latches on too quick and too tight and he can’t help it, he loves what and whom he loves and he never stops.

Maybe that’s how he knew that what he felt for Lydia wasn’t love, because it stopped. He admires her, too, thinks she’s brilliant and still the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen and ever will see. But he’s okay with the distance between them, with her friendship and nothing more. He doesn’t remember when that had happened, but he’s certain if he pinpointed it, it’d be somewhere around the time Derek stomped grumpily into his life.

So it’s a one-sided thing, whatever. He can deal with this; in fact, it’s like he was _born_ to deal with this. He’s got training! He knows how this goes and he can deal with it.

It just sucks, right, that it has to be someone who’s literally always going to be in his life? Because he and Scott are a package deal, no question there. But Scott and his pack are also a package deal of sorts, and that includes Derek, so he’s definitely going to always be there. Stiles isn’t quite sure if he’s happier about that than he is distraught, but he’s fairly certain it’s the former, if only because he’s a fool in love. But it’s also his werewolf-proximity senses that tell him so, and those are trustworthy. And also totally real.

“Okay,” Deaton says, catching Stiles’s attention from the endless whirling of his own thoughts. He zips up his bag and stands, every movement careful, even when he’s rushing. “He needs to be taken to the hospital now. I’ve taken care of the worst of it, but he has the beginnings of a fever.”

“I’ll take him,” Isaac volunteers, hands already sliding underneath the boy’s body. When the boy hesitates to accept him, Isaac makes a small noise, encouraging and safe even while it’s hesitant and afraid—Stiles closes his eyes, his heart hurting for the guy—and the boy is his. He wraps his arms around his neck and Isaac holds him protectively against his chest, his arms solid as steel, hands soft as a breath.

Deaton nods his head, accepting this with a hurried gesture back to his car. Isaac follows after him at a trot, and then those headlights are drifting over them and away, racing towards the hospital. Scott heaves a hefty sigh and turns to Boyd, frowning in sympathy.

“Sucks, man, though it definitely sounded worse than it looks now. What happened?”

“That was probably Derek’s injuries you heard,” Boyd says, glancing up at the man in question. “It wanted to rip chunks right out of him. Might’ve succeeded a little.”

The latter is posed as a question, which tells Stiles that Boyd might’ve been unconscious for a little bit. Why else would he not remember how Derek had gotten some of his injuries, if he had been there with him the entire time? Stiles glares up at Derek, pissed off and still zinging a bit from the adrenaline in his system. Derek merely scowls at them, displeased with the shift of focus, and shrugs his heavy shoulders, both of which are either covered in someone’s blood or are still bleeding as they speak.

“I’ll live.” He grunts. “It sounded worse than it was.”

“It sounded like slaughter.” Scott clarifies, his voice a rare whip of contempt. Stiles raises his brows at him, proud and impressed. But then a moment later he’s taking in those words and he’s pissed again, glaring at Derek and daring him, _daring_ him to look in his direction so that Stiles can give him an explosive round of verbal reprimands. He is so rash! Foolishly rash! Hypocritical, too, what with his constant needling about not doing stupid things. Clearly he needs to have a taste of his own medicine.

“Well, it wasn’t.” Derek’s voice becomes gruff, coming from low in his throat. The meaning of it is clear: drop the subject. Scott obeys, if only because Boyd is shifting a little, his injured leg bothering him. Scott gestures at it with his chin, asks, “How’d that happen then?”

Silence. Of the unexpected and curious variety. Boyd seems to be looking for the right words to say, carefully picking and choosing through several, when Derek interjects.

“My fault.” He says, and there’s not an inch of him that isn’t drenched in guilt. The lines of his face carve deep in disapproval, his anger and his sadness, as always, directed inwards. Boyd shakes his head, a halfhearted thing.

“It’s not that bad,” he promises, voice steady. “Doesn’t even hurt much.”

“Liar,” Scott huffs, but he’s smiling in a way that’s for Boyd’s benefit but is definitely aimed at Derek; it’s not a real smile, not nearly. It’s hiding—very poorly, Stiles might add—the gut-wrenching concern running through Scott’s veins.

It’s still a little strange how well Scott and Derek get along, now, what with Scott refusing to become a part of his pack for _ages_ and being resentful and all. Rightfully so, too, but all the same. Stiles supposes that for the most part, Scott is just generally unable to not empathize with people who are hurting, who are broken and fragile and screaming on the inside. Stiles feels that too, deeply; it’s always been a sort of issue between his father and he, and it brings back memories of his mother. Of hospital visits and Stiles’s insistence on taking care of his mom above himself, regardless of what his father said.

He’d never admit it, wouldn’t dare, but Derek is definitely broken.

Stiles watches the ways his eyes shift, gleam, then narrow. Pools of green flickering in the moonlight, dancing swirls of surly emotions dragging his eyebrows down low. His jaw ticks and his free hand fists at his side.

“I got—distracted,” Derek explains, voice low. He glances at Stiles, suddenly, an almost unconscious thing that makes Stiles sit up a little straighter. He shoots a questioning glance at Scott, wondering if he’d seen it, but Scott doesn’t take his eyes off of Derek. He’s frowning, though, in the same way that he’d been frowning at Stiles through the window of his jeep the last time he’d dropped him off at his house.

The silence builds and keeps growing until Stiles is certain that none of them are going to break it. Except for him, of course, because yeah they are definitely still out in the open, vulnerable to attack, and every one of them is bleeding somewhere. So, definitely not the best time to just stand (in Stiles’s case, sit) and stare at each other, though Stiles wouldn’t mind taking a rain check on that, either. The pack scores pretty high on the attractiveness scale, and he’s definitely not unwilling to reap the benefits.

“Guys? Monster on the loose? Boyd accepts your apology, Derek, so can we maybe _not_ hang around in the area the thing might still be lurking in? Just a thought.”

This time, Derek actually rolls his eyes at Stiles. Scott sniffs the air, completely unironically, though it still makes Stiles want to laugh.

“It’s not near us,” Scott asserts, confident. He turns back to Stiles and hitches his arm around his shoulders, helping lift him to his feet. They all seem to turn to the jeep at once, eyes expectant, and Stiles groans.

“Blood and guts and mud. _Everywhere_. Gonna get all over my baby.”

But he doesn’t protest. He knows they’re all a bit worse for the wear, that they need rest and in Stiles’s case, some homemade medical care. He’s not so debilitated that he can’t safely drive the jeep, though, so he snatches the keys away from Scott before he can get any ideas.

Scott frowns, but relents.

Once everyone’s hands and feet are inside the vehicle, Stiles turns it around and they head home, tired and hurt and quiet, with only Stiles’s terrible taste in music to keep them company.

 

✧

 

“Something’s changing.”

Stiles glances up from his bed and the tome sitting heavily in his lap, raising a curious brow at Scott walking through his bedroom door. It’s not surprising that he’s here so suddenly without warning, Stiles is definitely used to that. What _is_ surprising is the level of contemplation on Scott’s normally goofy face.

“I—what? Say again?”

Scott gestures vaguely, aggressively, like he’s trying to get his point across in this one jerky gesture. “Something’s _changing_ , dude. I can feel it but I can’t explain it.”

“That helps me absolutely not at all, just so you know.”

“It’s like, okay.” Scott pushes his fingers through his hair, and paces across Stiles’s room. “It started with Derek.”

“Doesn’t everything,” Stiles huffs, rolling his eyes. He completely ignores the way his chest suddenly feels tight, the way his throat closes up and he has to swallow to release the pressure of it.

“I noticed it a really frickin’ long time ago but I never said anything because, well, we’re a new pack, right? We’re new and we don’t know what we’re doing, and I assumed that Derek kind of knew what he was doing but still wasn’t _sure_ , ya know? We were all kinda just hoping for the best. So there was a lot of stuff I didn’t question, even though it felt weird.”

Stiles sighs, dog-earing the current page he’s on in the tome he’s reading, an amalgamation of monster types and descriptions, something ancient and not entirely in English. He recognizes a Confusing Scott Monologue when he hears one; it’s been quite a while since the last one, which had come when Kira had entered town and Scott had been trying to assimilate his past feelings for Allison, beautiful lovely badass Allison, and his new feelings for beautiful lovely kickass Kira.

“Derek is a good alpha,” Scott says, rubbing absentmindedly at his jaw. “He’s very attentive, especially in fights, like _seriously_ over-attentive in fights. You know he has that suicidal hero thing going on where he always goes at the thing alone.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, scowling. “I’m familiar with the trait.”

Scott flinches, flicks an apologetic glance at Stiles and says, “My bad.”

“But yeah,” Stiles continues on, shrugging his shoulders, pleased that he’d gotten his point across to Scott. “All things considered, Derek’s a pretty good leader. He knows how to keep his cool when it counts. He’s fuckin’ terrifying, so there’s that. Good at nesting.”

“Stiles, be serious.”

“Am I wrong?”

Scott ignores him. “So how did he get distracted last night? Distracted enough to let Boyd get hurt like that? It doesn’t make sense. We rarely get seriously hurt because he’s always _there_ , jumping in the way, always taking the brunt of everything for himself. It doesn’t make sense!”

Stiles frowns. “Dude, it happens. Shit happens. Not even Derek can be where he needs to be—or wants to be, I guess, though who would _want_ to be the person who’s always getting sliced and diced in battle, I’m just saying.”

“That’s the thing though,” Scott points at him, like he’s made a great point worthy of being literally pointed at. “He could’ve been there—he could’ve been where he needed to be or whatever, he was close enough to do it. He just…got distracted. Something caught his attention, in the middle of a fight for our lives, and was more important than Derek’s life, and even Boyd’s and Isaac’s. Do you get that, Stiles? Something more important than _his pack_.”

Stiles is frowning, now, concern riding him hard enough to tense his shoulders and neck, straining them. He sets his tome aside and stands, arms crossed over his chest and eyes narrowed, staring into space. His mind works a mile a minute, trying to come up with the answer, with any answer, because Scott is _right_ , that is incredibly strange and out of character and _strange_.

What might have more pull than Derek Hale’s own pack? His family, his true pack; but they’re all dead, every last one of them, gone. There is not a single thing that Stiles can think of that ranks higher than Derek’s pack, his new pack, the one he’d made himself. Not a single thing.

And Scott is so, so right and Stiles had been so, so _blind_. Something is changing, now, and neither of them can put their finger on it.

“Oh, shit.” Stiles swallows, hard. Scott nods his head, excited like a puppy now that Stiles is fully on his side in this.

“Right?”

“I mean, I don’t think anything is more important to Derek than his pack. Maybe it was something surprising?”

“Enough to cause him to endanger us? Not likely.”

“Dude, I don’t know. I’m thoroughly freaked out, though, so thanks for that.” Scott shrugs his shoulders, a careless movement as if to say _I’m right here with you, buddy, totally lost_.

“Maybe it was natural like, an unconscious reaction to something. I stand by him putting his pack before anything else. _Anything_ ,” he emphasizes when Scott opens his mouth to propose some sort of devil’s advocate argument. “So maybe he couldn’t control it? I have no idea what it could’ve been, Scott, but maybe he didn’t have control in that moment. Distracted in every sense of the word.”

Scott thinks about this, really thinks about it, and then he’s shaking his head. “It’s convoluted, but that has to be it. There’s no other way I can understand it.”

Stiles points at him and says, “Excellent use of vocab, Scott.”

Scott beams, smile bright as a sunrise. “Thanks.”

“Are things weird with Boyd and Isaac? With Erica?” Stiles asks, getting right back to business, the cogs in his mind turning. “Are they acting out of character too?”

Scott’s frowning again, but it’s less frustrated and more pensive. Still incredibly strange to see on Scott’s face, of all people, but Stiles is too sidetracked to feel the amusement of it.

“I don’t think so?” he says, voice rising in pitch. “Dude, no. The only changes have been like, the way we all respond to Derek. Like Boyd is usually standoffish, right? But lately whenever Derek’s with us he’s, I don’t know, a little closer. He comes out of the shadows more, is what I’m trying to say.”

“Hm,” Stiles contemplates, stroking his chin.

“And Erica!” Scott suddenly gasps, snapping his fingers in Stiles’s direction. Stiles holds in a startled laugh at the old-time gesture.

“She is _way_ more smug than usual whenever Derek is around. Actually,” Scott pauses, casting a strange look at Stiles. “With you, too. She’s been acting like she knows a secret or something. But mostly around Derek, but also around you?”

Stiles just stares at him, open-mouthed and wary. Genuinely confused but a little off put, he sputters, “I have no secrets?”

Scott gives him a Look, but continues on. “Isaac hasn’t been changing much, even with Derek in the room, but man. Thinking about it like this, like comparing their normal behavior to their behavior with Derek in the same room? It kind of makes them all seem a lot more smug.”

“Maybe they’re just, like, super happy to be in a pack? Super happy to have Derek as their leader? Weirder things have happened, man.”

“I don’t think that’s it, though.” Scott frowns, nearly pouting. He groans, “I don’t know. I don’t _know_. It’s just, it’s all—”

“Derek’s fault.” Stiles finishes, blowing a raspberry. “Of course it is.”

His words war a little with his mind; with the way he knows that, actually, not much is truly Derek’s fault anymore. Sure, when they’d just been starting out as a pack, things had gotten hairy—literally and figuratively—but now, some odd years later, they’d all grown and matured, Derek most of all. He is, in fact, a rather wonderful leader. All things considered. He’s also sort of got this thing where he feels responsible for everyone at every hour of every day, and takes all of the guilt and anger at every failure as a personal affront, which is actually not so wonderful at all.

As a pack, they all care for each other. That’s a given—you can’t really be pack and _not_ care. So it doesn’t sit well with any of them, the way that Derek deliberately puts himself in danger for them at any cost, just to keep them safe, regardless of what that means for his health and safety. And okay, maybe it’s a leadership thing and there are traditions and leadership _things_ that he’d been taught as a young boy by his entirely werewolf family, but times change. Rules change. Welcome to the new age, and all that. Stiles will not stand by any rules or traditions that involve one member of the pack having to wring themselves dry for the sake of the pack, not when there are better, safer alternatives.

But Derek _is_ their alpha, and while he doesn’t control them and is actually incredibly lenient and lax in his control, he refuses to allow any of them to take the blame for mistakes he thinks are his. Which includes, basically, everything he’s ever done. The guy has some serious issues, Stiles thinks, and he really has to do something about that.

But it’s so blatantly obvious, at least to Stiles, that he needs _help_ with that. He needs it, though he’d never in his life admit it. Can you imagine Derek Hale admitting that he needs help with his feelings? With trust? _Please_.

Stiles may or may not have taken it upon himself to be the pack chew toy, if only for the possibility of getting to snuggle with them after getting tossed around a bit. (Maybe he and Derek are a little more similar than he’d originally thought?) But his endgame has always secretly been trying to make Derek happy, which he thinks he’s definitely getting better at.

Derek is never openly affectionate with any of them, but he does touch and nuzzle where needed; some sort of alpha thing that cracks Stiles up almost as much as it makes him irrationally jealous. All he has to see is Derek putting a hand on Isaac’s shoulder, letting his fingertips touch skin around his neckline, a reassuring alpha touch, and Stiles instantly has to look away.

It’s not that he’s possessive by nature, or possessive at all, really. It’s just difficult to see the person you’re in love with dealing out affection to everyone around you, except you.

 _Obviously_ he understands why he doesn’t get the same treatment—hint: _not_ a werewolf.

But it doesn’t sting any less.

But Stiles is so not the type of guy to just skitter off and be quiet about it. Instead, he makes his own affectionate advances in hopes of returning the favor for Derek by sidling up beside him, a hair’s breath away but still not touching, and okay maybe part of it is selfishness because he _wants_ it. There’s definitely something wrong with him, right? Because it’s true. It’s there and it’s real and he can’t really explain it yet, but he wants desperately to be close to Derek Hale.

In any way he can get.

“Well,” he sighs, looking back up at Scott with pursed lips. “Maybe keep a better eye on him, then? If he’s doing some sort of darkside thing then we definitely need to know.”

Scott’s already shaking his head, denying the sentiment. He looks like Stiles has kicked his puppy. If he had a puppy. “He’s not going darkside.”

“Whatever is happening, dude, it led to Boyd with broken legs. Doesn’t sound like a _good_ thing.”

“He won’t go darkside.” Scott asserts, expression unflinching for only a moment, long enough for Stiles to grudgingly shrug his shoulders.

“Just keep an eye on him, man. We don’t want anyone getting hurt, not any of us, Derek included.” Stiles averts his eyes, stares in fascination at his cluttered desktop across the room. He pretends like his voice had been steady, and that Scott isn’t looking at him funny.

“Got it.” Scott hesitates. “Listen, man, are you…okay? You’re not feeling different or anything, right?”

Stiles snaps to attention so quick he _knows_ he looks guilty. He blows another raspberry, says, “Same old Stilinski, dude. Smart and devilishly handsome human pack friend, special agent, and all that. I deserve a badge or a plaque or something honestly, why haven’t I thought about this until now? I definitely deserve a plaque.” 

Scott laughs, quiet and relieved. Stiles thinks maybe he’s dodged a bullet with this one and how blatantly is he broadcasting his feelings for Derek if even _Scott_ got a whiff of them? He’ll need to tamper down on the pining and put better guards up, especially around Derek himself. This is, if anything, a good reminder of self-control, of which he seems to have less and less these days.

Can anyone blame him though? Derek _fucking_ Hale.

“Good,” Scott grins, plopping down in front of Stiles’s TV. He plugs in a video game Stiles can’t see and connects a second controller for Stiles. He hears a familiar opening scene and grins.

“I can’t have you getting all weird on me, too.”

“Me? Weird?” Stiles guffaws, loud and throaty, tongue sticking out a bit. 

“ _Never_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! There will be three following chapters after this one. Hope you enjoy them :' ).


	2. Chapter 2

So things get a little…weird.

Firstly, the young brothers, Ben and Adrian, both make full, seamless recoveries and are back at home; only now, Ben, the older brother that Stiles had saved, dedicates two days every month to sending Stiles letters. Most of them are simple thank you letters, while others include some story telling. Stiles honestly doesn’t really even know how to interpret them, and so he doesn’t really think about it too much. Not even when he tells the pack about it and they started bagging on him for being Ben’s hero, and also, probably, first crush.

He responds to every letter because he can’t just _ignore_ the kid and besides, he thinks it’s kind of neat. He feels like a big brother himself.

Even stranger than this turn of events with Stiles finally being the hero he’s always wanted to be, is what comes immediately after his conversation with Scott. He starts noticing things that he has absolutely no idea how he missed in the first place, mostly in regards to Derek, but also with the pack.

For instance, Derek is like, _always_ looking at him. He catches him staring—glaring?—at him more often than not and most of the time, when caught, he doesn’t even bother to look away. That’s definitely new; Stiles would have noted something like that earlier on. He definitely used to look away after a few seconds, out of boredom, probably, or something equally as drab when presented with Stiles’s over-excitable face.

But nope, now, it’s just staring and glaring and some sort of intensity that has come close to giving Stiles the absolute most _awkward_ of boners, several times. He doesn’t really want to talk about how many nights he’s already spent masturbating to the thought of those eyes, that stare, and the way he’s certain that Derek would look at him the same way if he ever was inside of him—he’s certain of it like he’s certain his dad is still sneaking unhealthy foods into his diet, like he’s certain that Scott will be his best friend for the rest of their lives.

Beyond the staring and the almost-boners, there’s the way that the pack seems to be sharing a secret that definitely involves Stiles. Now, he’s fairly used to being the butt of jokes, he grew up in close proximity to Jackson, get real, but this is different. This feels different in a way he can’t quite put his finger on, and that’s what makes it more frustrating.

Like okay, he’s a little bit of a disaster, all gangly and clumsy and stuttering all the time, with too much information in his head and slipping from his mouth. Maybe his sense of humor is a little off and maybe, okay, _maybe_ he’s a little goofy to look at, whatever. He’s still growing. His dad will back him on this.

But the way they share glances, conspiratorial and secretive, when he’s in the room with all of them—well. It smells a lot like elementary school, rather than high school. It smells like someone is going to be chanting that K-I-S-S-I-N-G rhyme any second now and that definitely means that they’re _onto him_ , right? Embarrassing but not the end of the world. He can handle some jokes about him wanting to fuck the alpha, he’s definitely not ashamed of it, though he doesn’t care that Derek is the alpha beyond, like, the fact that he’s the leader of a pack and what he says goes and Stiles isn’t even a _part_ of the pack, so.

That’s sort of a huge roadblock in and of itself.

He’s thankful that Scott seems oblivious to it. He’s still sniffing around with that introspective expression, though, as if he’s about to be on the trail, is only a few steps behind his fellow pack mates. Stiles knows that Kira knows, her eyes are far too shop to _not_ see it, but he’s thankful that she hasn’t spilled the beans. It helps, too, that she’s on vacation on the other side of the country. He’s not sure how long she can handle Scott being so close to knowing the truth without giving him a hint that’ll end it all.

Derek, for his part, seems utterly oblivious to any sort of signals that might be slipping past Stiles’s safeguards without his notice. He treats Stiles the same way he’s always treated him, like a pest or a verbal sparring buddy. Now that Stiles is watching him a little more closely, though, he _has_ noticed a bit of distraction in Derek.

He asks Scott about it, checking in and all that, and Scott seems surprised.

“Has he?” he asks, genuinely confused. “Stiles, man, I haven’t seen him distracted since that night in the forest. He’s pretty much been back to normal Derek behavior. Are you sure?”

Stiles had laughed it off, saying something about keeping a closer eye on him to make sure he’s not just seeing things.

He’s not just seeing things.

When they’re all together, huddled in Derek’s warehouse (Scott had convinced him to switch the venue from his family home to here, and Derek had been surprisingly willing to transition), Stiles will find any number of Strange Derek Things happening.

Like when Stiles is offering up whatever new information he’s managed to extract from the Internet and Derek’s old family tomes, Derek gets this look on his face, an oddly rapt expression for someone staring resolutely at the floor. Maybe the guy just really likes details? Stiles hasn’t a clue.

Or there’s the times when the pack is moving around a table, pointing at a map of the town and shifting to get different perspectives, when Stiles finds himself huddled next to Derek, close enough to touch. At first he doesn’t think much of it, it’s musical chairs without the chairs and he and Derek suck _ass_ at this game—he really should not have thought about ass sucking while this close to Derek Hale, what the _hell_ —but he’d expected Derek to move away, possibly to the complete other side of the room like he would have years prior, and yet. He’d stayed. He hadn’t looked at Stiles or said a word to him, ignoring the way Stiles blatantly stared, and he’d just…stayed.

This is a thing that is currently happening again. They’re looking at the map, everyone’s arms crossed over their chests, frowning down at the areas Deaton had explained a rugaru might frequent, and Derek is standing close enough to Stiles that if there were a breeze, there’d definitely be a collision of Stiles and Derek proportions.

Stiles is not opposed to the idea. He’s not opposed to a lot of things, when it comes to Derek Hale. Except maybe the ripping out of throats, with teeth. And the every now and again poor decision that would undeniably lead to an injured alpha.

“So,” Isaac says, pursing his lips. “We’ve got nothing.”

“We’ve got _something_ ,” Stiles disagrees, still displeased about being the one to have offered it.

Stiles had done copious amounts of research on rugarus since the night he’d almost been eaten by one, to the extent that he actually willingly paid a visit to Deaton to pick his brain and have his picked in return, albeit far more dangerously. He found out a lot of disgusting and expectedly terrible things about them; he didn’t think things could get worse than the _worms_ , but what can you do.

The worst discovery, however, is not anything to do with the rugaru itself, with all of its creepy attributes and intentions.

It’s how to kill it, that makes Stiles’s stomach turn.

“Immolation.” Scott repeats, smiling slightly because he’s undoubtedly proud of himself for not only pronouncing the word correctly but also knowing what the word means.

Sacrifice. By _fire_.

Stiles glances up at Derek from under his eyelashes and watches the steadiness of him, the way he holds himself utterly still, eyes still searching the map for answers. When Stiles had first explained the way to kill a rugaru, he’d pinned Derek with his eyes, wanting, _needing_ to see his reaction. He hadn’t wanted to hurt him, even with the words, even if they weren’t his _fault_ , so he’d been careful with the delivery of them.

Derek had not even changed expression. The lines around his mouth grew tight, though, like he had been purposely not reacting, and it made Stiles’s heart hurt. He lifts a hand to his chest now, absentmindedly rubbing at the skin over the direct source of his increased pulse, and Derek’s eyes leave the map for the first time and pin him in place, steely and bright.

“So we know how to kill it,” Isaac says, “now we just need…”

“To find it.” Boyd finishes, nodding his head. He’s completely healed already, standing squarely on both feet, a once-again hulking presence in the room. The room itself is massive, spread wide with an impossibly tall ceiling, but somehow next to Boyd’s size it seems smaller. Stiles grins at him, overjoyed with his speedy recovery. Boyd stares at him blankly, blinking. _Big softie._

“Shouldn’t be hard,” Derek says, his voice coming out a little harsher than Stiles thinks he’d intended. He swallows whatever emotions he’s repressing down and Stiles watches his eyes flick away from his face, back to the map. Stiles hears Isaac snort, and Erica murmur something that sounds suspiciously like _not the only thing that shouldn’t be hard._

Derek seems to ignore the both of them, but his cheeks are a little pink when he lifts a hand to rub at the shadow of his sharp jaw, lips pursed. “It’ll be hungry.”

“Close to town.” Stiles agrees, voice lower than _he’d_ intended. Derek doesn’t look at him, but his jaw clenches and Stiles has literally no idea how to interpret that reaction.

“There’s only six of us,” Scott points out, ever astute. “How are we going to do this?”

“Posts?” Isaac suggests.

Derek is shaking his head, eyebrows disapproving.

“It only takes one bite for this thing to become insatiable. It’s too dangerous to try to take it down alone.”

“Yeah, maybe remember that for yourself especially,” Stiles says, before he even really knows he’s saying it. The room falls into a heavy silence and Derek turns, slowly, to scowl at him. Stiles doesn’t back down, raising a single brow. “Glare all you want sour alpha, but you have a way of not following your own advice.”

Stiles shrugs, uncaring that Boyd and Isaac definitely just shared a _look_ , and Erica is grinning like wildfire, and Scott is staring at Derek and Stiles like something has just clicked in his mind. Stiles shrugs, pretends like he’s not freaking out a little. And by pretends he’s not freaking out a little, he means he completely freaks out a little and starts rambling.

“I mean am I wrong? I’m not wrong. One minute you’re like ‘don’t go after the thing alone!’ ‘too dangerous!’ ‘stupid thing to do!’ and then what’s happening, huh? I get a phone call from Scott telling me that you went after the damned thing alone and the next thing I know you’re bleeding all over my jeep or my floor as I’m forced to patch you back up. Which! Reminds me! You could always go to Deaton, right? Deaton totally knows medical stuff. I do not know medical stuff like Deaton—or even Scott!—knows medical stuff. Your instincts may be sharp when it comes to fights but man, medical stuff? Not your forte, bro. Not your forte.”

Silence; Boyd rubbing his hand over his mouth, hiding a smile; Isaac blatantly grinning at them, eyes flashing from Derek to Stiles and back; Erica outright laughing into the palm of her hand, turning to the corner of the room to try to smother the sound of it; Scott’s mouth falling open in a small, knowing, _oh_.

Derek turns to face him completely, and Stiles studies his expression with lips pursed before he bobs his head, enlightened.

He thinks, _yup, it’s time. Throat and teeth: The Time Is Now._

“Stiles,” Derek grits out, smiling with teeth in a way that is really just not a smile at all, “shut _up_.”

“Where is the lie?” Stiles demands, throwing his hands up in the air and discreetly taking a step away from Derek. He regrets that step immediately because now he’s not close enough to Derek to feel the heat of him, but Derek, bless him, takes the step back with a menacing advance.

Scott clears his throat before anything violent or exciting can happen, and when Stiles turns to look at him he thinks his expression is balancing shakily between weirded out and pleased.

“The cannibalistic monster?” he reminds them, as if that’s even important in the face of Derek Hale’s moody eyebrows and Stiles’s insistence on getting himself beat up. Honestly, Scott. “And how to find it?”

“We need to look for remains,” Derek says, suddenly helpful again. “It’s already transformed, so it’s already bitten at least one human.”

“Human remains?” Isaac looks sick, which is amusing since he’s a _werewolf_ , and remains of things is kind of in his job description.

Scott says, “Yeah,” at the same time that Derek says, “Maybe.”

“Maybe? If not human remains, then what? Animals?”

“If it only just got here, and we’ve been preventing it from feeding on humans, as those kids were likely it’s first intended meal, then it has to be eating something else.”

Scott nods, looking a little green. The fact that he feels sicker thinking about the thing eating animals than humans makes Stiles want to sit him down for a good long conversation, but that’s just Scott. He won’t like _any_ kind of remains lying around, but animals are sort of his passion.

“Okay,” he sighs, depressed. “Then we need to look for animal remains. And that will tell us…”

Derek stares at him with incredibly judgmental eyebrows, giving him the time to continue just to see if he’s really that obtuse. Spoiler: he is. “Where it is.”

“Right,” Scott nods, “Of course.”

“So just another day searching the town for suspicious animal remains, then?” Stiles asks, smiling. He shouldn’t be smiling, he _knows_ he shouldn’t be smiling, but he can’t help it. This is their lives. What a bar to set for normalcy.

“The second you find something suspicious,” Derek threatens, suddenly going all alpha on them. Why is he staring at Stiles again? “You call me.”

“Right-o, boss.” Stiles salutes him, pointedly ignoring the way Derek’s fingers twitch, as if to reach out and shake him. He turns to Scott and points at Derek, faking discretion.

He mutters, “Grumpy McGrumperson, am I right?” and feels Derek’s hand wrap gently around his nape, claw points pressing lightly against his skin. Claws!

“ _Stiles_.”

“ _Geez_ , you’re dramatic. Claws? Really? I’ve totally got this. See the stuff, call the bossman. Easy.” He slides out from under Derek’s grasp and pretends like the heat spreading over his neck is not a flush that spread to the tips of his ears, dotting the crests of his cheeks; pretends that it’s leftover from the heat of Derek’s skin and not a love-struck reaction to it.

But then he’s thinking about Derek’s heat and Derek’s hand pressed to his skin and he suddenly needs to get out of there like _yesterday_.

“Scott!” he squeaks, ignoring Boyd’s grin and Isaac’s chuckle and Erica’s outright catcalls as Derek walks around the table and begins explaining something to them in low tones, pointing to the map. They snap to attention immediately, listening to him without distraction. Stiles pulls the skin under his left eye down and sticks his tongue out at them, even though they can’t see it. “Let’s roll!”

Scott smiles, breathes a laugh, and heads over to his side to bump shoulders with him. Stiles winces, still a little sore from the other night’s running and being attacked adventures.

“Sorry,” Scott whispers, meaning it. “Forgot.”

Stiles reaches up and cups his hand around his injured bicep and laughs it off, saying, “No big deal, man. Doesn’t hurt much anymore anyways.”

He doesn’t know why he does it, maybe it’s natural to look back at him before leaving, maybe he could feel his eyes on him and was curious; whatever the reason, Stiles distractedly glances over his shoulder before they step through Derek’s massive front door and finds Derek staring at him, eyes on fire, nostrils flaring.

Stiles pauses, faltering in his steps, wondering at the control he can see Derek holding onto like a lifeline. He looks pissed but it’s overshadowed by embarrassment, like he can’t believe whatever set him off has him this out of control, but Stiles has no idea how to decode that. Boyd, Isaac, and Erica are still studying the map but their bodies are curled protectively close to Derek’s, as if waiting for him to spring so that they can restrain him as quickly as possible. Stiles swallows, and Derek’s eyes trace the movement, and Scott tugs lightly on his sleeve to get him through the door.

“Come on, Stiles,” he whispers, and Stiles doesn’t know why he’s whispering—why is he whispering? And there’s something about his tone like resignation, like acceptance. It’s not critical and it’s not disapproving, in fact, it sounds tinged in expectation.

Stiles has absolutely no idea what’s going on, so he follows Scott’s lead. 

After all, Scott’s good at that.

Leading.

 

✧

 

“So like, this is kind of confusing to me, if I’m being honest.”

The only times that Stiles had ever entertained the thought of Derek in his bed had involved a lot of nudity and thrusting and moaning and they had all been _dreams_ , of sorts.

Stiles had never actually expected to come home and find Derek, fully clothed Derek, real and tangible and just as gruff as always, in his bed.

Derek glances up from the tome in his lap and raises a brow, his lips curled down in a brooding frown. Stiles doesn’t know how to feel about understanding that expression better than if he’d spoken.

“I mean, okay, research is good, but that’s kind of my thing, remember? Also kind of my room. Aren’t you supposed to be out searching for animal remains?”

“Already have,” he says, shrugging his heavy shoulders. “Before I came here.”

“Right,” Stiles says, pretending like his heart’s not racing so fast he can feel it in his throat without placing his fingers there. “Before you came here. Tell me, why is that?”

Derek doesn’t answer, just continues to stare blankly at him, just this side of agitated.

“Or don’t explain, that’s cool too.”

Derek shuts the tome, running his fingers down the spine of it in a way that makes Stiles sort of wish he was that tome. He sets it aside and stands with a stretch, reaching towards the ceiling until the hem of his shirt rides high enough to give Stiles an accidental but delightful glimpse of his perfect abs. Stiles swallows, tries not to lick his lips.

And then Derek’s walking towards his window, lifting himself onto the ledge in a low crouch and about to hop right on out. Before he does—and Stiles can’t even stop him, he’s too flabbergasted with the entire situation—with the idea that Derek seems to have been _waiting up for him_ —Derek turns back and glares at him, but his lips quirk in one corner and Stiles feels his next breath get knocked right out of him.

He says, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

And then he’s gone. Just like that.

What. The. Fuck.

 

✧

 

Stiles gets used to Derek appearing through his window.

And by ‘gets used to’ he means, never gets completely used to it at all, because his heart picks up speed and his chest gets tight and his hands maybe tremble a bit? Because Derek Hale keeps coming into his room whenever he feels like it and Stiles has no idea when or if he will and there have been too many close calls with Stiles touching himself and whispering Derek’s name for Derek to have never accidentally heard it at least _once_.

And okay maybe also because it’s Derek freakin’ Hale and he keeps coming to see Stiles without any clear motive that Stiles can decipher, other than possibly enjoying the comfort of his bed without Stiles in it. 

It takes him a couple of days before he can fake normal interaction and pretend like his heart’s not about to beat right out of his chest at the sight of Derek crawling through his window, his muscled form unfolding smooth and sure from his crouch like a masterpiece coming to fruition. And then it takes a couple more days until he finally decides to just stop caring so much because clearly Derek doesn’t and this? This is _exhausting_. He feels like he’s going through puberty again, feels like the very first time he ever saw Derek Hale and went home and immediately touched himself afterwards because his hormones were out of control and his self-control was still dismal.

When he decides, fuck it, he’s tired of being jumpy and nervous all the time when he’s alone with Derek, things start to fall into place. Nice things.

Things like a closeness building between them that is neither uncomfortable nor forced; it’s slow-growing, and natural, and intimate. Stiles imagines it’s something like the way that the pack feels when Derek shows affection, when he touches a shoulder or a nape here, nuzzles into someone’s hair there.

He doesn’t seem to have a preference with Stiles, not like he does with Isaac (quick nuzzle), or Scott (knuckle bump), or Erica (quick hugs), or even Boyd (shoulder touch).

Unless his preference with Stiles is just this: closeness. In any way he can have it.

Stiles doesn’t mind, although he’s certain like the sky is blue that he would not mind some nuzzling, because that looks wonderful and is also sort of the most awkward thing he’s ever seen Derek do and it makes him laugh every time. That always embarrasses Isaac, but he can’t help it, and okay maybe if Derek Hale nuzzled _him_ , then he wouldn’t be laughing either. Definitely wouldn’t be laughing. Oh, God, he’d probably be moaning. He can’t even think about it, he doesn’t have the luxury, because Derek is _right there_ sitting against his headboard reading up on rugarus with his legs crossed, feet bare, in Stiles’s bed.

Stiles is on his laptop, fingers flying over the keys, pages flashing by his vision. He hears the bed creak and his heart matches the lurch of the springs. He does not hear Derek’s steps—that’s never anything but creepy—until Derek is leaning over him from behind, one hand resting on the edge of the desk, crowding Stiles in.

Does he even know he’s doing that? Crowding Stiles in? Stiles doesn’t know and he’s definitely not going to mention it, he’s not, but it’s a genuine question and—

“Do you even realize how close you get sometimes?” he blurts, and not a second later his cheeks are spotting pink, his ears burning. Derek doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t move away, not an inch. His shadowed jaw is so close to Stiles’s temple he can almost _feel_ the scrape of it against his skin.

“There,” Derek says, suddenly, and Stiles’s hands freeze on the keys. He gestures towards the page, apparently completely ignoring Stiles’s earlier remark. “Move it all back up to the top.”

“Do you mean _scroll_?”

Derek ignores him, repeating, “ _There_.”

He thrums in his chest, the beginnings of a growl at whatever part of this page he’s focusing in on. And then he’s straightening, heading for the window, his shirt far too tight around his shoulders to be legal. Speaking of shoulders, there’s not a wound on Derek anymore. Just a few days are all it takes, apparently, for proof of a near-mauling to vanish on an alpha werewolf’s body.

Stiles watches him go, bobbing his head, scrunching his nose.

“Yeah, right, definitely. Just get on up and leave, no explanation, totally fine. Nice talking to you barely at all. Nice sharing space. See you at some random unpredictable time tomorrow when I’m probably gonna be embarrassing myself in some way. Least you could do is bring a snack or something for your host, I’m just saying. Common courtesy.”

Derek smiles from his crouch on the windowsill, actually smiles, and then he’s gone. Stiles stares, open-mouthed and incredulous, wondering what he’d ever done to deserve this kind of confusing life.

He is one hundred percent okay with the frequent visits, awkward conversations and indistinguishable feelings from Derek aside, because he genuinely enjoys spending time with him. It’s still the strangest thing he’s come to realize, don’t get him wrong, he never would’ve expected to genuinely like the company of someone so constantly angry.

But the more time he spends with Derek, the more he begins to understand that anger is not Derek’s prominent emotion, or feeling, or setting.

It’s _sadness_. A big, heaping, broken pile of sadness. The guy is so sad that sometimes Stiles can’t do anything but repeat a mantra in his head of how he’s not allowed to touch, not allowed to touch, not allowed to touch; because Derek might just kill him. Or try to kick him out of town.

(Stiles would _love_ to see him try; his father is the _sheriff_ of this town, so like. Good luck.)

Or do any other random thing that Stiles doesn’t want to deal with.

But Derek needs a hug and maybe some nuzzling of his own and doesn’t anyone else see that? Why isn’t Scott, like, on this? Why isn’t he nuzzling Derek every day he can? The man needs some nuzzling, and as a bonus, Stiles would even suggest cuddling.

Anger is there too, but it pales in comparison. Especially with someone who knows Derek as well as Stiles does, and isn’t that a wonderful and strange thing? Stiles _knows_ Derek. Huh.

Stiles closes his laptop, doesn’t have the concentration right now to continue with his research, and gets up with a stretch of his own. His shirt lifts and he feels the cold air of his room touch his stomach, and he remembers that glimpse of Derek’s abs and suddenly, just like that, he’s hard. He can’t even be embarrassed, really.

He groans, standing there in the middle of his room, wondering what he should do. But really, there’s only one thing he can do, right? So Stiles takes care of it; lies in the same spot that Derek had been sitting in for the past hour or so, turns his face until his nose is pressed against the pillow that now smells like Derek, and groans.

It’s quick and dirty and it leaves him wanting, hands shaking, breaths only slightly heaving. He whispers Derek’s name and feels a little foolish, a little too much like an unrequited lover doing sad, lonely things. But that’s kind of what he is, though, right? Definitely unrequited. Definitely lonely. Check those off the list. Hell, check them _twice._

But he does not pity himself, because that’s not something Stiles Stilinski does. So he gets up and cleans himself and his bed, knowing he’s going to have to wash the sheets now and that’s gonna raise questions from his dad when he gets home from work— _You’re doing laundry? What happened? Blood again? Are you sick? Should I be concerned, Stiles?_

Maybe he could get the damn sheets out of the dryer before his dad even gets home.

It’s not his top priority, though, when there’s still a cannibalistic monster out there terrorizing their town. They’d managed to do a pretty stellar job of keeping the locals safe, in lieu of keeping themselves safe, and Stiles is starting to lose count of how many broken arms and legs his friends have come home with after an altercation with the creature. Apparently the thing is damned elusive, slippery like a fucking fish, unable to be captured or pinned down long enough to be killed.

It’s a little bit of a hindrance that it has to be sacrificed with fire. That sort of necessitates holding it still. They just need to manage to knock it unconscious, that’s it, but Stiles knows it’s a lot more complicated than that. He’s seen the bruises, the tears, the lacerations his friends have been coming home with. Derek’s injuries, the worst of the lot because of course they are, are also the quickest to heal. But they have still been bad enough that he hasn’t even come directly to Stiles like he usually does on a few occasions. He’d make a few stops back at his warehouse first, letting himself rest so his body can heal right back up, broken bones and nearly severed limbs all falling under the umbrella of child’s play in his alpha book.

The exhaustion is still a thing that happens, though, and Stiles is actually good at remedying that. Well, his bed is. Derek seems unnaturally delighted with Stiles’s bed, whether that’s because of its softness, or it’s overall comfort factor (Stiles would indeed score it high), or if Stiles is being particularly optimistic, the proximity it has to Stiles.

If he’s being particularly delirious, it has to be because it smells like him.

He has some evidence to back that up, so it’s not completely out of this world! Derek likes to touch and sniff all of his stuff, like, all the time. Sometimes he even steals Stiles’s clothes, though he has no idea what he actually _does_ with them because there’s no way in hell they fit him.

Best-case scenario: he’s jerking off with them.

Worst-case scenario, and most probable: he needs cleaning rags.

Regardless, Derek has to like the way he smells, at least a little bit. And he absolutely adores Stiles’s bed, enough to stay in it even when Stiles crawls in beside him to sleep.

He’d given the guy plenty of warnings, telling him three times in three different ways all in the span of one hour that he’s getting tired, that he’s hunkering down, preparing to sleep, that that’s _his bed_ and he’s not going to sleep on the floor in his own damned room.

Several warnings, several chances for Derek to get out of bed and head on home, or at the very least just to get out of Stiles’s bed. Easy peasy. But he hadn’t, not once, not even when Stiles hurled himself bodily onto the mattress and curled on his side, pressing his cold feet to Derek’s heated shins. The man is like a _furnace_ , not a single speck of him anything but hot.

Every time Stiles wakes up, Derek is gone, and his side of the bed is cold.

_His side of the bed._

Stiles does not even care how ridiculous his smile looks when he thinks about that—about Derek having a _side_ of his bed. The smile dims a little, though, when he wonders if Derek knows he has a side of Stiles’s bed. Or if he just thinks the amazing comfort level of said bed and the potentially wonderful smell of Stiles Stilinski is worth any torment, including sleeping next to said Stiles Stilinski.

Stiles will not back down from the Stiles Stilinski Smells Good Enough To Tolerate Torture assertions.

Speaking of smells, Scott has gotten incredibly skillful at scenting out Stiles’s veiled emotions and calling them out as frequently as possible; this never leads to anything but awkwardness, because usually the only emotions Stiles veils are involved with Derek and his attraction to Derek and his deep desire to kiss the living daylights out of Derek. And then some. Definitely and then some.

Clearly things in Beacon Hills are too quiet, insatiable cannibalistic creature of shadows or not, and Stiles has way too much time to himself and his thoughts.

He’s almost looking forward to chaos.

 

✧

 

Has Stiles ever mentioned how bad his luck is? Like has that ever been a thing that he mentioned, even in passing? Because it’s relevant and sort of the worst fucking thing. He doesn’t know how he gets into these situations, they’re completely out of his control, he swears.

How could he possibly have distinguished a werewolf’s _stay away_ roar from a werewolf’s _please help me anybody I’m dying_ roar? Especially when that werewolf’s roar is so heart-wrenchingly familiar, so clearly Isaac’s high-pitched tone?

Stiles had two options and no time, as far as he’s concerned. He could get Derek on the phone and tell him a vague location he’s unsure of, and then warn Scott, too. Or, he could head directly to the source, offer whatever kind of distraction or aid is needed until he can ascertain that Isaac is okay and not _dead_ , and then call Derek and tell him the exact location.

There are definitely some issues with both of these plans that, had he a clearer mind not fraught with terror for Isaac’s life—he doesn’t even really _adore_ Isaac, he only sort of loves him like a annoying little brother—he would’ve taken care of, like calling Derek as he’s heading to the location so that he could get there sooner, perhaps, but he doesn’t think of that. He just doesn’t. Anxiety weighs him down like sludge on every bone of him, making heavy his chest, every breath a struggle. He sprints into the trees, running as fast as he can towards Isaac’s whimpering cries, noises even Stiles can tell he’s trying to muffle out of some sort of embarrassment or something.

“ _So_ not the time!” Stiles bites off between gritted teeth, leaping over a fallen log only to skid into the small clearing where he can see the rugaru sinking it’s teeth into Isaac’s shoulder, just about to _snap_.

“Hey!” He screams, using the entirety of the force in his lungs. “Hey ugly! Over here! Come on, wormhead, remember me? The one that got away?”

The creature stiffens, scents the air, and turns over its shoulder with lightning speed. Isaac’s wrists are bent at odd angles and moving them makes him whimper but even still, he tries to lift his hands to stop the creature from going for Stiles. Despite the terror and the bravado of distraction, Stiles is touched.

The rugaru, somehow even more repulsive than Stiles remembers, has some kind of animal skin hanging from one of its rotten fangs. It’s eyes lock onto Stiles with an unblinking stare, and it heaves a mighty shriek into the night sky. The moment Stiles sees it twist its body away from Isaac, he takes off running in the opposite direction, right back from where he’d come. He nearly forgets to call Derek, only reminded now because he has nowhere to run and this isn’t a part of his plan, actually, he should’ve called earlier and had backup, but here he is, up shit creek without a paddle, like always. This time though, it’s definitely his fault. Like one hundred percent.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he chants, reaching to his pocket, feeling for his phone. His heart nearly drops out of his body when his hands come up empty, his pockets phone-less. “Oh my God.”

His _phone_. It’s in his jeep. It’s in his _jeep_.

An incredulous thought, bubbling up deliriously as laughter, reminds him that at least he’s running in the right direction. The creature is enhanced, it’s speed and strength incredible, and he’s human, he’s so fucking human, and he’s not even really that athletic of a human, either.

But he’s got no backup and he had to save Isaac, there was no way he was going to stand around twiddling his thumbs, hiding behind a phone call, while one of his friends was being mauled by a cannibal monster.

So instead of panicking like he would absolutely love to, he keeps running, focuses on not tripping, pretends like he has a chance of outrunning this thing. He doesn’t think about having no phone, no backup, no chance. He doesn’t think at all. He just runs.

It’s too soon when the creature tackles him from behind, déjà vu of the worst frickin’ variety. His breath gets squeezed out of him on impact, his hands crushed underneath him. He feels the tear of claws across his left shoulder blade and bites off a scream. He tries to buck under the weight of it, pushing those claws further into his skin in the process, but it’s a worthless attempt.

This is how he’s going to die. Face down in the mud, with his arms pinned under him like clipped wings, and a cannibal creature clawing him to pieces from behind. What an anticlimactic way to go; he’s fairly certain he’s done enough things right in his life, accumulated enough good karma, that he should at least get a little bit of slack here. A cool, heroic ending that maybe doesn’t actually involve him dying at all? It would be so damn nice if he could turn this thing around and come out on top, preferably literally, he cannot breathe under the weight of this thing.

And then, almost as if he’d wished it, the weight is gone, he can breathe, he can _breathe_.

He rolls onto his back and sucks in as much air as he can, his hands slowly unfolding, tense at the elbows. He rolls his head over and sees Derek, fully wolfed out, and déjà vu is there again, but it’s good, it’s so good, because this time Scott is right there with him, ripping into the creature with a force Stiles has yet to see from him.

Even still, it pales in comparison to Derek’s ferocity. He’s quick enough that his movements blur, his strength incredible as he hurls the thing hard enough that it breaks a tree in half with the force of it. He doesn’t even let it get back to its feet before he’s back on it, teeth digging into it’s jugular, snapping closed with an audible _crunch_.

Scott shoves a clawed hand through the creature’s chest and Derek’s jaw clenches harder, blood spurting from several punctures. Gradually, the creature deflates, exhausted and brutalized, a long drawn whistle of breath wheezing from its throat. Scott rips his arm from its chest—gross—and crouches there for only a moment, waiting for some signal.

He gets it when Boyd arrives with Isaac in his arms, hanging almost limply, a reflection of the little boy Stiles had carried through the forest just a few weeks earlier. Erica skids out of the tree line behind them, eyes wide and worried.

“He needs Deaton,” Erica urges, and her voice is insistent enough to shock Stiles into sitting up, even when it makes the skin of his torn shoulder blade pull terribly. He hisses through his teeth, feels the prick of automatic tears in the corners of his eyes, and watches as Scott glances from Derek to Boyd and nods, a sharp thing. Boyd listens to the command in it without even checking for his alpha’s approval and Stiles wonders if that’s _allowed_ , or maybe that’s what Scott had gotten in that earlier glance at Derek, somehow.

Either way, the dynamic between Scott and Derek had changed right under his nose; there’s a kind of trust, there, that even he with his human senses can see and feel. Something powerful, like unwavering loyalty. Stiles’s heart is still racing from adrenaline, but it feels lighter knowing that Scott and Derek have something so special tying them together. They’ve come so far he almost feels like a proud father.

When Boyd and Isaac are gone, ushered away at Erica’s insistence, Scott turns to Stiles, but doesn’t approach. Derek still has his jaws locked around the thing’s throat, unforgiving, terrifying in his most feral nature. Usually, Stiles thinks, Scott would’ve come right over to him. It confuses him, and if he’s honest, worries him a little that something has changed, there, too.

But then he sees Scott’s face, sees the way he keeps glancing from Derek to Stiles and back to Derek, as if he wants permission to move, as if he’s far too close to a predator to make any unwarranted and rash movements, and Stiles understands. Derek is in fine form, all right, enough so that his own beta, someone so intent on maintaining his own sense of control and autonomy, is waiting for the go-ahead to even flinch in another direction.

Stiles groans around his aching chest and watches Derek’s claws twitch, hears the thrumming in his chest as a growl works its way up his throat. Scott shoots Stiles a warning look and he settles a bit, glancing from Scott to Derek in confusion.

He’s so damn lost.

But then Scott flicks his eyes to Derek and mouths _talk to him_ and Stiles is so blown away by this entire situation that for once in his life, he does what he’s told.

“Derek?” he asks, voice hitched. “Derek, man, I think you got it. I think you can let go. Can Scott come say hi to me by the way? That would be beyond awesome; to infinity and beyond awesome.”

He doesn’t think Derek will actually listen, especially with the inappropriate amusement laced in his tone, but the man’s never been easy. Stiles watches him unhinge his jaw from the rugaru’s throat, blood smeared across his chin and jaw. He nods, and Scott is at Stiles’s side in an instant, fussing over his injuries, worrying over the cuts on his shoulder blade and the paleness of his face.

“How did you know?” Stiles asks, suddenly realizing that he had not in fact called them, or told them the location, or done anything he had been instructed—ordered—to do. He had not listened to the ultimate survivor and leader of their group. Excellent thing to do in a time of crisis. “How did you find me?”

“Isaac,” Scott smiles. “Isaac called Derek. Once when he found the rugaru, and again. When he found—”

“ _You_.” Derek’s voice is guttural, still more wolf than man, and it makes Stiles flinch. He hates admitting it, but even Stiles can’t do much but shrivel under the power of an alpha’s tone, especially one like Derek’s, so very rarely used. It’s only more intense, more powerful in the few instances when he does use it, because Stiles _knows_ it’s purposeful. He shrinks away from it, definitely, but also from the meaning behind that single word, thrown out of Derek’s throat like a curse.

He hadn’t listened, and he’d almost gotten himself killed. What was Derek’s favorite thing to tell him? _Don’t do anything stupid_.

“In my defense,” Stiles begins, voice a mere squeak in comparison to Derek’s roaring tone.

“ _Don’t,_ ” Derek interrupts, bringing a hand up to grip the punctured neck of the creature underneath him, claws cutting deep with crushing force. “Don’t fucking speak right now.”

Scott’s smiling, which is ridiculous, the most ridiculous thing in the world, and Stiles wants to ask him about it. Pointedly. But he also sort of doesn’t want to speak because, well, furious and feral alpha, yards away. Direct command not to speak. Not the best odds. Even Stiles can’t deny that.

So instead, he just sits there, sort of aching all over but not wanting to make any more embarrassing sounds from the pain because Derek is cut up to _hell_ and he doesn’t even seem to notice. Scott’s got a few cuts and bruises, too, but they’re not as bad as Derek’s and they’re already healing. Stiles, however, is still damaged goods.

“Take him home,” Derek says, gritting his teeth and never once removing his eyes from the creature under him. “Now, Scott.”

“Are you—”

“I’ll be fine.” He does look up, then, looking into Scott’s concerned eyes and expressing something that apparently soothes Scott’s nerves. Scott nods his head and hitches Stiles up as carefully as he can, helping him up and into the jeep. This time, Stiles is in too much pain and is just too damn exhausted to argue about who’s driving. He lets Scott fold himself into the driver’s seat with a grin, and doesn’t even protest when he jams the gearshift right off the bat. He just sighs, watching Derek’s tense shoulders as Scott puts the jeep in first gear.

“I’ll be back soon, don’t start without me.” Scott says over Stiles, waiting until Derek finally nods. “I mean it okay?”

“Get going,” Derek snaps, scowling over his shoulder, his features human again but his eyes still fiery bright, a murky crimson sunset. Scott nods his head and turns the jeep around, rolling up the windows to ward against the evening chill; he drives slowly so as to jostle Stiles as little as possible.

Stiles rests his cheek against the window and closes his eyes, thinking about the comfort of his bed, and the pillow that smells like Derek.

 

✧

 

Stiles is almost one hundred percent certain that he’s a dead man walking.

Or limping. His shin hurts like a son of a gun and he ruined his favorite pair of jeans, too. His hands are gripping the edge of the sink, knuckles white, a sad hunched attempt at stretching the torn skin of his shoulder blade so that it won’t feel so tight whenever he moves just slightly. It’s not his best idea, but it’s a hard to reach spot and Scott had left him, at his own insistence, to get back to Derek and the unconscious rugaru.

They’re going to burn it. Stiles is a little upset that he’s not going to be there for the process, mostly because he sort of wants to make sure that Derek is okay throughout it, given that fire and sacrifice are involved and he’s got far too much experience with both of those to be unaffected by them now, even so many years later. Not that Stiles knows what he’d do if he _was_ there. He’s fairly certain that he’d just stand by his side, closer than is probably acceptable, sharing heat and space. It’s as much as he can offer without pulling the man into his arms, cupping his nape, and pressing his nose into the skin of his throat.

Because that—that is definitely something he wishes he could do.

As if Derek would ever let him, though. That would necessitate _liking_ Stiles, and that’s just out of the question.

Of course Derek would never want Stiles. He’s hot like Lydia hot; hot like untouchable. He only really notices Stiles when he’s uproariously noticeable and is at best near-violently exasperated with his presence in general. He’s the kind of beautiful that people tell you isn’t real, is manipulated on computers and mass-produced to deceive.

And okay so maybe he’s brash and maybe he’s dark and brooding and constantly upset over _something_ ; and, yeah, he throws himself into dangerous situations without a care in the world for how it might affect those who care about him, which is terrible and wrong. But Stiles already has plans for how to make that stop, plans he’s going to set in motion the moment his ass is healed and he isn’t walking around cringing because everything hurts like _burning_.

Maybe Derek’s a little hard to get used to, a little hard to be around. He’s bossy and grumpy and he doesn’t much care for company or social interaction—the most extreme of introverts, possibly, Stiles isn’t quite sure.

But he’s also the bravest man Stiles knows, right up there with his dad. And he leads the pack with care, and muted enthusiasm, and a brand of leadership Stiles never would’ve expected from him in a million years. He’s affectionate in his own way, constantly checking in on his pack and making sure that they’re not having difficulties with the whole werewolf thing. He shares his home, his space, and nearly all of himself with them just for the sake of protecting and bettering them, because he loves them.

Hell. He totally loves them, doesn’t he?

Stiles isn’t sure if he gets to be a part of that umbrella since he’s not exactly pack, but he’s pretty certain that Derek no longer _hates_ him, which is awesome. Maybe he even likes him, just a little bit. Stiles is damned likable, after all.

At least in a platonic sort of way, as his relationship history clearly stands for. It’s been him and his hands for so long he can’t even remember the last time he was _kissed_ , which is inexplicably unsettling and quite rude, if he’s being honest. He’s very kissable. He’s been told this at least twice. At _least_.

Stiles groans, feeling a headache begin to form, pounding in his temples. It’s a wonder he hadn’t noticed it before now, with all the banging around he’d gone through earlier. He glances up into the mirror and studies the scratches on his face, tiny things from being tackled (twice) that he barely even feels. It’s his shoulder blade and his shin that are trouble. He’d managed to slap a bandage halfheartedly on his shin, stopping the bleeding from reaching his carpet, but the wound on his shoulder blade is in a pesky spot. He’s fairly flexible and he can reach the spot if he stretches, but every stretching movement makes it feel like he’s tearing his own flesh off, so that’s sort of out of the question real quick.

So instead of dealing with it, he ignores it, and hops onto his laptop to do some final bits of research on the rugaru—in case, you know, it suddenly somehow survives immolation and Derek and Scott are left there, alone in the woods, wounded and confused, with a raging cannibal revived at their feet. He also really doesn’t want to think about anything but what he’s reading, either, because he knows what he did tonight will have consequences, and that, with his luck, they’ll be dire.

He got a pack member brutally injured, and was almost killed in the process. He’d let Scott dump him at the driveway, reassuring him that he’d be fine and to head back to Derek as quickly as he could, before dragging himself inside to take care of what he could on his own body. His dad isn’t home, thank God, because Stiles walked inside covered in blood and mud and smelling of foul creature.

He’s been avoiding a clear mind since the moment he got out of the jeep, focusing entirely on attending to his wounds while knowing, _knowing_ that any second he’s going to turn around and find a seething, righteously furious Derek in his doorway, ready to rip his throat out. With his teeth.

Because no one, probably not even Stiles, gets in the way of pack business; especially when it leads to one of his pack members getting brutalized and Stiles, puny, defenseless, slapdash Stiles is to blame. He’s not certain how far his pack membership by proxy relationship, as Scott’s best friend and resident research pro, will take him. Certainly not far enough to escape an alpha’s wrath, right? He’s so fucking dead. Dead meat on a desk chair.

He ignores the impending doom looming over his head and continues to do his thing: research. He’s unsure how long he searches, his eyes flickering over page after page regardless of the increasing pounding pain in his temples and the way his hands are still a little unsteady. His palms are scratched to hell, but he’s dealing with it. He’s just glad his throat escaped any damage this time around; he’s had far too many close calls with strangulation, leaving every breath a painful adventure he never wants to experience again.

After however long in front of his computer, he starts to feel the wound on his back again and knows he has to take care of it, pain be damned. He closes his laptop and pads over to the bathroom, prodding at a pretty vicious laceration across his ribs before preparing to slide his shirt up and over his head.

He doesn’t really know how he knows that Derek is on his property before he slips through the window. Maybe it’s the sudden ripple of thunder in the distance, a daunting warning of a fast-approaching storm. Maybe it’s the way he breathes in and can suddenly smell rain, and musk, and ash.

“ _Stiles_.” Derek growls, voice trapped in the pit of his wide chest. It’s deep enough that Stiles can literally feel the vibrations of it in the air, against his skin. He turns and has excuses and acceptance already on his tongue.

He tells him, “Listen, I know, okay? I know I fucked up, big time. Major-league big time. It’s my fault and Isaac is hurt because of me and I’m a useless, worthless human disaster that you didn’t ask to have in your pack—Scott is totally worth the package deal, though, I can’t be bad enough to make Scott look bad as an addition to the pack, even _I_ know that—but yeah, you’re right, definitely a bottom-feeder sucking the strength out of this pack, my bad. I don’t mean that in a trivial way either like, legitimately, my bad. It won’t happen again. I won’t let it happen again. I shouldn’t have acted without thinking, and I shouldn’t have interfered—”

“No,” Derek agrees, voice so low, so quiet, that it’s worse than if he’d shouted. Stiles flinches in response, penitent and off kilter since he had definitely been expecting _roaring_. “You shouldn’t have.”

Stiles swallows. “Right, yeah. Got it. Stupid thing to do.”

“Incredibly stupid.” Derek snarls, eyes like shifting flames. He presses through the doorway and Stiles, unthinkingly, glances up to meet the glare that he had, admittedly, been avoiding. He thinks, _God, really good plan on that one, Stilinski_. _Look a raging predator right in the eyes, right there where they interpret aggression. Fantastic idea_.

His eyes jump away the next moment, land on a chipped tile, and he steps back away from Derek’s advancing form until the dip of his back is pressed against the counter, the lip of which bites into his quickly bruising spine.

He hisses from the sting of it, the spark of pain, and it’s enough to distract him from Derek’s incredibly intimidating presence looming over him—until he feels Derek’s fingers sliding over his skin, under the material of his shirt, right below the ripped curl of skin edging the laceration on his ribs.

“Look at this,” Derek whispers, and there’s still that menace there, terrifying and foreboding, but now when Stiles looks up at his face, back daringly into those piercing green eyes, he feels a different kind of fear—one laced with wonder, of all things. Derek stares at the wound and his jaw ticks, his hand fisted in the material of Stiles’s shirt to hold it out of the way.

“Never again,” he says, then, looking up into Stiles’s wide, uncomprehending eyes. “You will not _ever_ do something this fucking stupid again.”

Stiles nods without really understanding, but he’s stuck back on the way Derek’s thumb gently strokes the skin over his ribs, just far enough away from the wound so that it’s more of a tingling than a stinging sensation.

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing. “But in my defense, as I tried to tell you earlier, I still sort of stand by the _reasoning_ behind why I did this. If it had been you there, and you’d heard Isaac, you would’ve went to him too. I know you would’ve. We all would’ve. So I don’t really think that I should be harassed for that part of this whole thing, man, because I was right to go after him. There was no way I was gonna hide behind a phone call. No way.”

Derek’s eyes are depthless, unending pits of flashing fire, but he doesn’t contradict Stiles. He doesn’t _argue_ , and Stiles is so baffled by this one fact that he keeps going, keeps chattering, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“So yeah, dude, not my bad in that regard. My _good_ , actually. I may not have super strength or speed or whatever, but I am devilishly handsome and hilarious, with a fabulous knack at research. And I’m brave! Who knew, right?”

He makes it a joke, desperate to lighten the air between them. Derek looks at him in a way that’s neither threatening nor aggressive, but is still angry, and confused, and _frustrated_ for reasons that Stiles cannot understand.

“You are,” Derek says, voice disarmingly soft, as genuine as Stiles has ever heard it. “All those things. Not worthless. Not useless.”

Stiles stares at him, frowning, thoughts slowly configuring.

Derek says, “You’re more than you seem to realize you are.”

Finally, Stiles snorts. “What, like obnoxious? Chatty? Fly as all hell? I definitely know those things, man.”

Derek tilts his head at him, thinking. It might be Stiles’s imagination but Derek almost looks _nervous_ , his words hesitant, every one of them carefully chosen before being spoken.

 “That,” he agrees, ignoring Stiles’s what-can-you-do shrug, “and smart. Loyal. You have good instincts.”

“You think I have good instincts? What, for a human?” Stiles’s eyebrows keep rising higher and higher, until he’s sure they’re going to disappear into his hairline. He can’t help his amused tone, either, because this entire conversation is so over his head he doesn’t know what he’d do if he weren’t laughing at it. “You know, all of this sounds _dangerously_ close to compliments, big guy.”

Derek’s expression becomes storm clouds again, and for a second, he looks like he’s going to say something huge, something that Stiles definitely, _definitely_ wants to hear, but then he’s turning away and striding out of the bathroom. Gone, just like that. Stiles lets out the breath he’d been holding, lifting a hand to the hammering beat of his heart in his chest, trying to talk it down.

“Come on, come on,” he whispers, tapping his fingertips against it. “Simmer down in there.”

He’s still giving his heart a pep talk when Derek comes striding back in, surprising Stiles into a sputtering mess all over again, because hadn’t he just left? Like, the property? Stormed off in a frustrated rage after giving Stiles some maybe-compliments?

Derek sets the Stilinski first aid kit on the sink and turns to study Stiles’s eyes, his jaw clenching and unclenching. Renewed lines of tension run over his entire frame, making his neck and shoulders strain. His voice, when he speaks, isn’t quite alpha in tone but it’s getting there. “Sit.”

Stiles sits. Incredulously, he thinks _who’s the dog, now?_ But he’s smart enough not to voice it. Not when Derek’s carefully crafted control is still so close to shattering. Stiles can see that clearly in the heat of his staring eyes, the clench of his jaw, the uncomfortably edgy shoulders.

Stiles feels dazed, but that’s probably because he hasn’t had a conversation like this one with anyone other than Scott, who constantly reassures Stiles that he’s awesome. But this is _Derek_. 

He has also never been this close to Derek before, not when the two of them are alone and conscious. Sleeping beside him doesn’t count because Stiles never remembers it, since Derek’s heat works incredibly efficiently as a mechanism to beckon the soft touch of sleep before Stiles can even really appreciate lying next to him. And he leaves sometime in the night, earlier than the sun rises, before Stiles wakes. 

And when they’re around the pack, the closest they get is standing next to each other, with no touching whatsoever. So it makes perfect sense that Stiles’s heart is a little out of control in his chest, nervous and excited with Derek’s proximity, only a hair’s breath away from him in the tiny space of his bathroom.

And actually, the most surprising thing here isn’t actually how verbal Derek is being or even how close they are—though it is surprising—but rather the simple fact that Derek is not killing him. He’s definitely not killing him? Or attacking? Ripping his throat out?

Stiles has no idea why he’s acting so calm and speaking so softly and it’s throwing everything he knows about Derek Hale into a sort of chaos of confusion in his mind. His heart continues to be embarrassing, racing in his chest, both from the proximity to Derek and the adrenaline still lacing his system, and he knows Derek can hear it. He _knows_.

Stiles doesn’t question how Derek knows where the Stilinski first aid kit was in the first place, he just does not need to know. Derek turns back to him and with that same startling gentleness he’d used to first lift Stiles’s shirt to see his wounds, he grasps the hem of Stiles’s shirt with a questioning expression. It’s as if he wants permission to slide it over Stiles’s head, which has Stiles nodding immediately, blearily—this situation is _unreal_. He withholds the hiss he feels rise in his throat as the material snags over the various cuts on his abdomen, and worst of all, the four slices on his shoulder blade.

Derek crouches in front of him, wraps his fingers around Stiles’s wrist, and does something truly incredible: he takes the pain away.

Stiles watches, fascinated, as his veins shift from blue to black and the pain leeches gradually from his system. Derek’s hands are beautiful, and Stiles loves them, loves that they’re a heated bracelet that he knows he’s going to be feeling for the better part of the rest of his life. He’s not even being dramatic; he’s just _that_ into Derek. He craves the feel of his skin on his own, thinks that even if Derek had not given him this incredible gift of taking the pain away, the simple touch of him would’ve been enough to soothe him. He’s nervous with Derek so close, with Derek touching him, but he’d be damned if he broke the spell with the mindless chatter he’s itching to release into the silence between them.

It’s nice, though, somehow. The silence. Derek seems to be calming down the more he’s able to touch and help Stiles with his wounds, so much that the strain in his body is slowly easing away, like Stiles is the cure he’s been looking for all along. 

Derek tosses Stiles’s shirt into the tub and starts to efficiently and carefully apply antibiotics with his free hand, reaching everything he can manage. He does this with precision, not wanting to miss a single cut, all the while grasping Stiles’s wrist to take the pain away. He’s never done this before. _Scott_ has done this before, and it had brought Stiles close to tears in wonder and amazement and sheer exhilaration. This, out of everything that comes with being a werewolf, amongst super strength and speed and senses, is the most enticing of incentives for Stiles.

If he ever, _ever_ even thought about submitting to an alpha’s bite, to _Derek’s_ bite, the power to take someone’s pain away would be at the forefront of his mind, powerful and beautiful enough to persuade him to lean a little closer to giving in. But he knows, without a single doubt, that even this beautiful thing, a miracle hidden under a curse, is not enough to sway him. He _likes_ being human. He doesn’t want to be a werewolf, excellent additional characteristics be damned. He’s content with where he’s at in life, as a human running with wolves. He’s okay with it.

But all the same, this special talent of theirs is something worth crying about. He doesn’t even know how he’d managed to withhold the tears that had filled his eyes when Scott had first done this for him, taken his pain away—it’s so easy to say it, like that, just take the pain away, but the process is so monumental, it blows his mind.

Now, with someone like Derek Hale, whom he’d never even realized thought anything of him other than a sometimes-useful pest, willingly and insistently and _carefully_ taking the pain away from him? Add on to that Stiles’s recently realized feelings for the man and it becomes clear that Stiles is doomed. His tears brim and fall down his cheeks, surprising both of them.

“Sorry,” he laughs, embarrassed. “Scott does this sometimes for me and I mean I’ve never cried but like, it’s pretty awesome right? It’s incredibly awesome. It gets me every time. And I mean you’ve never—for me—I’ve never actually seen _you_ —actually, just, never mind. Never mind me. Keep on keepin’ on, and all that.”

Stiles glances away, swallows. Listens to the sound of rain starting to pelt against his window frame, which he’d left open. His carpet is probably getting wet right now. 

Derek seems to ignore him; fingers around his wrist soft and unfelt until he starts almost distractedly tracing his thumb over Stiles’s pulse. This catches his attention, has him looking back up into the structured, beautiful lines of Derek’s face, the clench of his strong jaw, the sharp arrow of his nose leading down to perpetually frowning lips, too full to be allowed, really.

He stares. He can’t help himself. He watches Derek run his free thumb, coated in antibiotic ointment, over the large gash over his ribs, not once looking at Stiles, at all, even though it’s blatantly obvious that Stiles is staring at him.

They’re only a breath away from each other, there’s no way Derek can be _missing_ that stare, but he ignores it, like he usually ignores Stiles. He’s not even bummed about it, he’s so used to it.

Its just that this whole night is turning out so weird now because, literally, what the hell? Derek Hale is not _gentle_ , he is not _careful_ —except that, apparently, he is? What a conundrum. What a paradox, Stiles thinks, completely unironically. There’s definitely a part of him, exhausted and delirious from pain and, well, exhaustion, that wants to laugh at that. Derek Hale is all hard edges and storm clouds but here and now, with a little of his walls broken down due to what Stiles is considering extenuating circumstances, he’s handling Stiles with the kind of care not seen outside of _love_.

Woah. Back up.

Maybe it’s something of a different shade, not lesser but still _different—_ something like respect, or loyalty, or admiration.

But when Stiles blinks and tries to negate the concerned tilt of those expressive eyebrows, the foreboding slant of that frowning mouth, the softness of his gaze from beneath his long black eyelashes, the gentle swipe of those fingertips—callused and worn from a laboring lifestyle—all he can see is _that_.

That thing. The big one. _Love_.

A shiver runs down his spine, completely unrelated to external stimuli and entirely in response to the sudden pressure of his chest, the too-quick beating of his heart.

Derek pauses, undoubtedly hearing the change in Stiles’s pulse, but he remains wholly focused on cleaning and patching up Stiles’s wounds.

“Are you injured anywhere else?” 

Stiles swallows. Derek’s voice, deep and husky, is a flame running straight through him, setting him on fire from the inside out. It’s a different kind of flame from the one that stems from his anxiety—softer, and more of a simmer with sparks than an all-encompassing torch. It soothes and excites, giving endlessly, warm and wonderful. Anxiety only cuts, and hurts, and takes.

“My shoulder blade,” he whispers, cheeks heating. “It’s kinda bad.”

Derek frowns, a hand already on Stiles’s elbow, encouraging him to turn around so that his feet are in the tub where his shirt lies, rumpled and bloody. He becomes aware, for the first time all evening, that he’s shirtless and alone with Derek; that Derek is seeing him in really bright lighting, casting his already pasty skin in a white glow not unlike that of the moonlight, and how unflattering he must appear.

He hunches his shoulders without even realizing it, head hanging low. His cuts stretch and sting, but he merely bites his lip hard in response. He can hear Derek moving around behind him, obviously reaching for heavier duty stuff, necessary for stitches. Stiles can’t help but feel small in comparison to Derek, whose size puts this tiny bathroom to shame.

He’s built beautifully, in an unreal, unfair sort of way. It hurts to look at him sometimes, with his wide shoulders, his heavily muscled back, the way his chest tapers down into thin hips. Stiles refuses to even _start_ thinking about his abs, because there’s nowhere in this damned bathroom that he’d be able to hide his boner. He actually doesn’t want to think about Derek’s thighs, either, because talk about works of art.

Thinking about Derek Hale, naked, at all, is a dangerous endeavor that Stiles should not be doing right now, with the man in question at his back, hands sliding gently across his skin. He shivers under the exploratory touch, wondering what Derek’s thinking, if he should start talking to make this any less _weird_.

He doesn’t start talking, mostly because he’s too busy clenching his teeth in preparation for the stitches, knowing that he’s going to have to soldier through it. Derek is, admittedly, quite skilled with stitches, but skilled or not, Stiles knows from experience that it still hurts like hell and Stiles isn’t werewolf tough, okay? Let him live.

“I have to clean it out,” Derek mentions, almost loftily, like he’s discussing the weather.

“I know,” Stiles grits, muscles clenching in anticipation because actually he’d forgotten about this part and now he’s not sure he’s ready.

“I’m totally ready,” he lies. “Wait!”

He can practically hear Derek stiffen behind him. He glares over his shoulder, eyes flickering between Derek’s hands. 

“What?” Derek snaps, annoyed. Stiles glances at his face, does a double take, and thinks that he looks a little rosier than usual. Might be a trick of the light, though, and he’s too distracted to study it intently.

“You’re not going to use hydrogen peroxide, right? That makes it worse!”

Derek holds up the cup full of clear liquid in his hand and Stiles thinks, _when did he go into my kitchen?_  

Derek points at the glass, jerkily, with sass. 

“This?” he says, tone mocking. “ _Water._ ”

“Okay, alright, just making sure.” Stiles holds his hands up defensively, hunching his shoulders again as he faces forward. “Not your first rodeo. Noted.”

Derek only grunts.

As it turns out, though, water does not hurt much less than hydrogen peroxide when doused over an open wound. Stiles grits it out and thinks he does pretty well, coming up with creative curses on the spot under his breath just to distract him from the pain.

“That part’s over,” Derek explains, mostly for Stiles’s benefit since both of them clearly know that already. Stiles appreciates it, though.

Derek stitches the way he fights: with speed and aggression.

Okay maybe he’s not that bad but it _feels_ like something terrible is happening back there, something that Stiles could win money through a lawsuit over. Derek has been relatively gentle this whole evening, though, so Stiles gives him the benefit of the doubt and only complains when it’s bad enough to necessitate verbal questioning.

“Ouch,” he says once, when Derek tugs a little too hard.

“ _Ouch,_ ” he repeats, pointedly, when Derek does something that hurts enough to send chills down his spine.

“Don’t be a baby,” he chides, tone gruff. Stiles almost whirls around on him, prepared to tell him a thing or two, but Derek’s still got him on a silk string, so to speak. By the time he hears the tiny pair of scissors snip the string after the last stitch, he’s lost his gusto. He rolls his shoulders and lifts a hand to absentmindedly cup the side of his neck. 

He glances over his shoulder to watch Derek stride back over to the first aid kit, notices that he’s at perfect eye level with Derek’s firm ass and just like that, his night improves greatly.

Derek washes his hands and Stiles tries to remember common etiquette, like not staring blatantly at a friend’s ass, especially after said friend just stitched one of your wounds and currently has your blood on his hands.

By the time Derek turns back to him and leans a hip almost lazily against the counter, arms crossed over the wide expanse of his chest, Stiles is already halfway through a hefty list of things he’d like to do to Derek’s ass.

“Anywhere else?” Derek asks, and Stiles thinks, _oh my God he read my mind._

“It’s? Not what you think?” he sputters, turning completely around on the lip of the tub so that he’s not straining his neck. One of Derek’s eyebrows lifts, transforming his entire expression into something curious and confused. 

“Are you injured anywhere else?” he clarifies, and Stiles laughs into his hand, which only serves to make Derek’s dipped eyebrow rise to meet the other. Stiles feels a little silly and a little delirious, still, but he blames it on the sheer number of curveballs that have been thrown at him in one night. How is he going to explain all of this to Scott without sounding like he’d been on drugs the entire time?

He hears Derek click his tongue, an impatient gesture, and stutters, jerking his head up to look at him.

“What? No? No. I’m good. I’m all good!” he leaps up, a big mistake, and clutches loosely at his aching ribs—something’s definitely broken, or badly, badly bruised in there—and doesn’t actually let his fingers touch the skin. Derek scowls at him, making another irritated sound.

“Hey, so,” Stiles starts, now that he’s standing and they’re in his tiny bathroom and he actually feels rather comfortable this close to Derek, whereas just a little while ago he’d been having a mental breakdown at their proximity. He can’t stop staring at him, at his beautiful face carved so stark with every feature dark and sharp and handsome, all in direct contrast to the lightness of his eyes, fire bright and just as heated.

They’re so green sometimes Stiles thinks about the forest, about the times when he’d been young and he and Scott would go lay out in a clearing all day until they were looking up into the pitch black sky, speckled with millions of stars. Of feeling the tall grass sway around his little body, of the sheer wonder in his mind with all of those flickering balls of light so far above him, blinking down at him, encouraging and beautiful.

Other times, usually in the mornings, Derek’s eyes catch and hold sunlight and become molten steel, silver surrounded by gold, transformative. Like gates to futures unknown but undoubtedly better, happier, brighter around the edges and deeper in feeling.

Stiles can’t remember when he’d first started looking at Derek and stopped seeing just the boy, and then the man, and instead saw a future.

Stiles doesn’t realize how his stare makes Derek squirm, is too busy viewing for the first time the garden he’s been tending in the coliseum of his chest, one that he’d planted and watered for years, hoping one day to find someone bright enough to help him lift the petals of his soul up to the warmth of the sun. He hadn’t noticed the way every part of him felt lighter, more beautiful, under Derek’s heated gaze. He hadn’t realized, until just now, that Derek is sort of the light of his life.

An incredible feat when he’s in the running against Stiles’s very own best friend and ball of sunshine, Scott McCall.

Derek looks away from him, and it’s abrupt enough a movement to bring Stiles back to reality, back to the present.

“Woah,” he says, lifting his hand again to press over his heart. Derek keeps his head averted, but he glances up out of the corner of his eyes to study Stiles’s expression. Whatever he sees there seems to startle him, as his body straightens and he takes a step back, towards the door, towards the window. Stiles stares at him, confused with the movement.

“Just because the rugaru is dead,” Derek says, a rush of words jumbled into an unfinished statement that Stiles can barely decipher. He turns and then Stiles realizes, _oh_ , _he’s leaving_ , just as he strides through Stiles’s room and perches on his windowsill. Stiles takes a moment to think that he’s lucky Stiles has a fairly big window, otherwise he’d have to transform into some sort of contortionist in order to fit on the sill.

“Doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous out there. _Don’t_ do anything stupid.”

And before Stiles can say something contrary or roll his eyes or ask him to _stay_ , he’s gone.

Out the goddamned window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My stories wouldn't be my stories without intermittent doses of introspection :' ) Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Despite Derek’s warning, with the rugaru dead and gone, Beacon Hills becomes a relatively safe and boring place again. School is school and homework is homework. His friends are werewolves, and he is a wired human being who researches until four in the morning just about every morning. He and his dad have dinner together Sunday evening and talk prospective meals and activities for the upcoming week, mixing in some favorite movie quotes and long-standing jokes between the two of them.

Things fall back into place, as normal as he can understand things to be, except for that part where Stiles knows he’s in love with Derek Hale.

 _Knows_ it.

He’d always thought it complacently, like _oh_ , _yeah, he’s sort of wonderful, I sort of like him a lot, it’s fine. Everything is fine._

But after that night, with Derek so close, his touch so gentle and the scent of him under a coat of ash from burning the rugaru alive, just enough to drive Stiles to an epiphany of monumental proportions and now? Now he’s in an awkward position.

It had been fairly easy, before, to pretend that he wasn’t in love with Derek Hale. He had self-control, he could pretend that standing close and seeing him come through his window and _sleeping in the same bed_ were all things he was relatively apathetic about. It was cool. He was totally incognito.

Except something had changed, Scott’s earlier words ringing in his head, and now he’s struggling. He’s struggling so damn hard to keep his hands to himself and his behavior within the confines of Acceptable Things Friends do, and don’t even get him _started_ on his lack of verbal filter. Too many times in the past few days had he said something to make his feelings even more obvious, though thankfully he’d managed to steer clear of Derek and had only word-vomited his affections for the alpha on Scott and Boyd.

He’s actually quite happy about verbally barfing on Boyd. This is definitely something that’s going to bring them closer; he has a good feeling about this.

Speaking of feelings, Stiles cannot seem to control his for the life of him. It’s as though the moment his heart finally got through the muddled, overcrowded room of his mind, something clicked into place and tossed out several other things, most notably his self-control and sense of pride. He’s still trying to find those.

It’s been several days since that night, and Derek has not come to his room once. He’s not sure what to think about that, knows it can’t really be _good_ , but the space is something he probably needs, too. It’s not what he _wants_ , though.

So he lets Derek do his own thing, doesn’t hound him or ask after him or anything, just lives his life and does his normal thing without much complaint. He burns silently every night and he can literally never stop thinking about the man but that’s his business. He and Scott have a lacrosse game in the middle of the week and practice behind Scott’s place a few times. But the most important event of the rest of the month and actually the whole year, really, and maybe even the next decade, is the coming weekend.

Lydia Martin’s eighteenth birthday.

She’d invited the entire pack, including Derek, and Stiles had been pleasantly surprised but mostly suspicious until he’d asked her about it and she’d merely given him a look.

“I wonder,” she’d said, in that enigmatic way she had, in which he knows that she knows things he will never really know he might’ve known. She is so awesome.

It is still unknown whether or not Derek will attend said party, but Stiles and Scott know well that should he decide to reject Lydia’s generous invitation, or even worse, just not show up at all, that he will have red-headed hell to pay. Stiles hopes for Derek’s sake, as well as his own he won’t lie, that he decides to go.

Stiles is more than ready to have some time to let loose, maybe drink a little, and relax. There have been far too many instances where his life was in the balance in the past few months. He deserves a drink and someone willing to kiss him silly on a couch somewhere.

He prefers Derek with his beautiful eyes and striking face and strong, yet gentle hands, but he won’t turn down a sweet and willing partner should one arise.

At least, he doesn’t think he will. It’s just kissing, right?

Stiles frowns before glancing up and across the lunch table at Scott and Kira, recently reunited.

Kira has been back in town for a single day and Scott has not left her side once. Quite literally. They’re currently pressed side to side, with Kira’s tiny hand wrapped up in Scott’s. She laughs, flushing a little as he nuzzles against her ear, his smile so utterly content it makes Stiles want to smile, too.

Instead, he says, “You two are gross. You’re so cute that you’re gross. I’m throwing up. I’m throwing up right now.”

“Sorry,” Kira laughs, but she turns her head and kisses Scott’s cheek, quick and chaste and sweet enough to give Stiles cavities. Stiles doesn’t think she’s actually apologetic at all.

Isaac slides into the space beside him, lightly bumping his shoulder with his own.

“Surprising,” he says, gesturing to Scott and Kira with absolutely no surprise at all. Boyd slides into the space on the other side of Stiles and nods his head, already lifting his sandwich to take a bite before he’s even fully seated. Stiles beams at him until Boyd begrudgingly nods in his direction, sighing when Stiles’s expression turns doting. Erica slides in on the other side of Boyd and pops her gum, arm slipping through Boyd’s until she’s comfortable.

He turns back to Isaac, says, “Right? I _just_ told them they’re so cute they’re kinda gross.”

“Speaking of cute,” Kira says, at the exact moment that Isaac says, “Speaking of gross,”

They both look at each other, grinning wickedly, and then turn to Stiles. He knows by the quirked eyebrows and the hitched corner of Isaac’s grin that this isn’t going to end well.

“How’s Derek been lately?” Kira asks, trying to sound innocent. Stiles hesitantly shrugs his shoulders. Sucks on his juice box.

“I don’t know, haven’t seen him.”

“He’s been…chatty.” Boyd suddenly says, lifting his sandwich for another bite. Everyone turns to him, mixed parts amused, surprised, and curious.

Kira laughs. “Derek? Chatty?”

Scott rolls his eyes, says, “Babe, you have _no idea_.”

“I don’t think I can believe it until I see it.”

“Oh you’ll see it,” Isaac joins in, eyes full of mirth. “He’s been a little _frustrated_ lately.”

“Frustrated.” Kira says, dragging her words out. “Right.”

Stiles frowns. “He’s been chatty with you guys?”

Isaac purposefully takes a long sip from his soda can, all the while staring at Stiles with bright eyes. Stiles narrows his eyes at him, turns to Boyd and finds him taking a massive bite of sandwich. Erica takes the moment to examine her cherry red painted nails. Kira is no help, obviously, because she just got back into town, so when his eyes land on Scott he expects answers.

What he gets instead, is Scott literally twiddling his thumbs, head bowed low with his face held in deep concentration, watching his thumbs move.

Stiles smacks a hand against the table, lips pursed. “Oh come _on_ , what am I? Chopped liver?”

“Probably more like a cinnamon roll.” Isaac says around the lip of his Coca Cola can.

“Yeah,” Boyd adds, his deep tone amused. “I don’t think Derek likes chopped liver.”

“Who does?” Scott mutters, but he’s still trying to stay incognito, even though he’s sitting directly in front of Stiles, whom he’s apparently hiding things from.

Stiles glances around at them, one by one, eyebrows raised.

“Is shit about to get real right now? Is Stiles Stilinski gonna have to get _real_ on you right now?”

“Wow,” Erica snorts.

“Terrifying,” Isaac drones.

“We’re doomed.” Boyd adds, smiling.

Stiles, distraught at having been turned on, moans, “Et tu, Brute? Et _tu_?”

Boyd smiles into the last two bites of his sandwich, unaffected.

“Fine,” Stiles sniffs, “Since apparently our friendship means nothing to _any_ of you heathens, except for you Kira whom I love and adore, I know you wouldn’t do me wrong like this,”

Kira gives him a discreet thumbs up, the smile on her face radiant. Her eyes gleam with amusement, with joy, and it draws Scott to her like a moth to the flame. He presses a kiss to her cheek, reciprocating her earlier affection.

“I’m going to go eat lunch like a one man wolf pack in my _jeep_. Feel bad about it.”

He turns on his heel and heads out of the room, ignoring their laughter and Scott’s half-amused, half-distraught, “Aw, come back, Stiles!”

He walks out of the cafeteria with his adorably pert nose pointed sky high.

Revenge, when he finally gets it, will be sweet.

Sweet as a cinnamon roll.

 

✧

 

Stiles manages to ignore and avoid them for an entire day before Scott finally makes it past his dad, who had specific orders not to let _anyone_ past him (they are going to have _words_ ). He gets to Stiles’s locked door and does the polite werewolf thing by not breaking it down with one easy kick. He mopes outside of it and apologizes a few times, before Stiles finally relents and lets him in. They play video games for two hours before Scott says he has to get back home for a tutoring session.

He gets text messages from Isaac periodically throughout the day, starting off teasing and then, when repeatedly ignored, slowly sliding into reconciliatory territory. Stiles does not relent; his will is made of iron, of _steel_. It gets to the point where Isaac just keeps sending him the same question in different words; _you’re not really mad, are you?_

Stiles is not really mad, but he’s having a good time pretending like he has enough of that iron-steel will to be, especially since he is never able to stay mad at any of his friends for long. He ignores his phone, even when he gets a text message from Boyd. He’s fairly certain Isaac is actually behind it, and it’s so damned tempting to respond to because it’s _Boyd_ , but he mustn’t break. Not even for Boyd, the big softie.

He spends his day playing video games, decoding bits and pieces of some Hale family tomes that aren’t in English, and eventually finds himself curled up in bed, preparing to sleep. He’s already planning on forgiving everyone tomorrow (even though he’s not truly mad) and bringing them homemade cinnamon rolls to show that he’s a particularly good sport. He’s fairly certain they know he’s kidding, anyways; how could they have interpreted his speedy walk and upturned nose when leaving the cafeteria as anything but him mocking himself and the role they’d given him in this secretive game?

He _had_ eaten lunch in his jeep though, and it was actually really sad. He doesn’t want to do that again, at least not by himself. He’ll take Kira with him next time. The thought makes him smile, rubbing his nose against his pillow.

The material still smells ever so slightly of Derek, even though he hadn’t been in Stiles’s room in days and hadn’t slept in his bed in weeks. Confused as he is with Derek’s continued avoidance of him, especially when it seems he hasn’t been avoiding anyone _else_ , his familiar scent still calms Stiles in some inexplicable way. Stiles closes his eyes and presses closer to the material, comfortable and content.

He’s a breath away from falling asleep when he hears something near his window, cracks one eye open and then hears a gruff voice say, “Stiles.”

He nearly breaks his spine with how quickly he glances over his shoulder, twisted at the waist, cheeks flaming from the frightened shriek he’d let out upon hearing his name so close to his ear when he’d been the only occupant of his room until about a _second_ ago.

He blinks rapidly, trying to clear his eyes in the darkness of his room, and there, sitting on the edge of his bed as if he belongs there, is Derek Hale.

“What in the ever-living fuck is your problem, man?” he snaps, trying to keep his volume down because his dad is home tonight and he doesn’t want to wake him—the man needs his sleep. “You do not sneak up on people like that! Are you trying to kill me?”

Stiles can’t really see him all that well, he’s sitting just out of reach of the trail of moonlight coming in from his window, painting his navy sheets cerulean, but he knows without having to see it that Derek has just rolled his eyes.

“Next time, I’ll throw a rock at the window first.”

“Oh my God, no, you’ll totally break it. You probably won’t know your own alpha strength and then I’ll have to lie to my dad and say some hoodlums are picking on me and threw something through my window. Absolutely not.”

Derek sighs, lifting a hand in a careless gesture.

“What do you want me to do, then?” he asks, words so quiet Stiles almost misses them.

“I don’t know. What did you do before?”

“Usually you’re awake.”

“Right,” Stiles says, stuck on the word _usually_. Is it okay if he looks a bit too far into that word and realizes they have a pattern? A pattern that involves Derek visiting him frequently? Frequently enough to have a _usual_ thing going on?

“Well usually I can’t sleep so I’m up. But for some reason I was good to go tonight, but now that my heart is trying to find it’s way back to my chest from where you’d frightened it right into my throat, I’d say sleeping is out of the question. Thanks.”

Derek cards his fingers through his hair, runs the pad of his thumb along the sharp line of his shadowed jaw.

“You can still sleep,” he says, as if it’s that easy. Stiles is about to say as much, but before he can get the words out, Derek adds, “You sleep when I’m here.”

Stiles shuts his gaping mouth. If that had been a little less arrogant, it might’ve sounded _tender_. And what the hell is Derek thinking, saying things like that and acting all smug about the fact that his presence often helps Stiles get a good night’s sleep? He curses the lights for being off, desperately wanting to see what expression is currently playing over Derek’s handsome features.

Coherency lost, he mutters, “Uh, yeah. I guess.”

And then Derek’s moving all in one fluid motion, lifting the blanket and scooting in behind Stiles until his knees are tucked behind Stiles’s, until his arm wraps around Stiles’s waist and his breath is warm on the nape of his neck. They’ve never done _this_ before. Derek has never put his arm around him, or spooned him, or even _touched_ him before, especially when they would lie in bed together. This is completely new territory that Stiles is going to have dreams about for sure.

Derek Hale is _snuggling_ with him. He is being _snuggled_ by Derek Hale.

Incredible. And completely and totally out of the blue.

Stiles does not ask questions. Questions can come later, when they have no chance of ruining this for him, because this? This is honestly the best thing. This is the greatest thing so far.

“Sleep,” Derek whispers, and the breath of the word slides across Stiles’s nape, makes him shiver. Derek’s forehead rests lightly against the back of his neck and Stiles pretends like he can’t hear the thundering beat of his heart, far too quick to be anywhere close to letting him sleep.

Derek doesn’t mention it, though, only continues to hold him up against his body. He’s bigger than Stiles and every line of his body is harder except for the one place Stiles sort of wishes he’d be, but he’ll take this happily, more than happily, and be glad for it at all. If Derek snuggles are the final stage they make it to, then by God Stiles will make them great and make them last.

They lay together in silence, long enough for Stiles’s heart to actually hitch back down to a pace that’s normal, if a little slow, a little closer to sleep. Derek’s hand, the one wrapped around him and pressed against his side, shifts until his fingertips are touching his ribs, stilling to feel for his pulse.

“Are you really upset with them?” Derek asks, keeping his voice as low as possible. Stiles is thankful for that, knowing he’d done so in order to not startle Stiles from almost-sleep once again. Stiles hums, eyes opening and head tilting slightly so that he can look down and see Derek’s hand on his bare skin, on his body.

“No,” he admits, smiling. “Of course not. I’m just messin’ around.”

Derek breathes out what feels like relief, pushing Stiles’s longer hairs behind his ears to tickle him. “Good.”

“You should’ve seen them, though. Totally deserved this. Ganged up on me like _woah_ , and started saying all these strange things about you being chatty.”

He feels Derek stiffen behind him, muscles tense. He ignores it, oblivious.

“Imagine my surprise!” he continues, amused. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you in days. I was wondering if you were just a figment of my imagination or something. Grumpy McGrumperson, my favorite imaginary friend.”

There’s a pause, a moment of silence, and then Derek knees him gently in the butt, a reprimand that has Stiles reacting in ways he’s certain Derek had not expected or anticipated. He holds in a groan, willing himself to just. Not get a boner right now. Not right now. Not because of a simple butt-tap via the knee.

They lay there in silence again, Derek brooding behind him, Stiles trying to will his quickly forming boner away from this plane of existence. The usual Derek-Stiles shenanigans.

“I’ve been avoiding you.” Derek finally says, like this is news.

“The sky is blue.” Stiles replies, bland. “Water is wet. Are we stating the obvious? I can get creative.”

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, hopes a little for another knee-tap to the butt for his sarcastic tone, hopes a little for nothing at all.

Derek sighs, but doesn’t move his legs. Stiles is surprisingly dejected by this, considering he’d been sort of neutral on the subject. Sort of.

“Do you have a shitty remark for everything?”

“You have _no_ idea.”

“Hm,” Derek hums, sounding suddenly exhausted. Stiles wonders how _he’s_ been sleeping, since he hasn’t seen him in a while. The dark had shrouded his face, cast away any help Stiles might’ve had in deciphering his current condition, but his voice sounds sleepy, dropping off into a slurred drawl. Stiles holds in his questions, desperate to know _why_ Derek had been avoiding him, desperate to know what this thing between them is.

He doesn’t want to force a name to it, that’s not his style.

He just wants to know where he stands with Derek.

But for now, in this moment of comfort and joy, he’s content to know that where he stands with Derek is not a standing position at all.

It’s curled up in Derek’s arms, in his own bed, drifting off into the land of dreams.

 

✧

 

Lydia’s birthday rolls around sooner than Stiles expects, but is more than prepared for. Scott had text him in the morning with shocking but wonderful news: he’d changed his underwear for this event. Stiles is still beaming with pride by the time he makes it to Scott’s place to pregame.

And by pregame, he means play video games for half an hour—barely enough time to make it through to a checkpoint in Mass Effect 3—and then talk endlessly about their expectations for the night. Stiles is still debating on whether or not he wants to drink, while he knows for certain that Scott will not be. It’s partly because he’s a werewolf and would probably need to drink every ounce of liquor under Lydia’s roof in order to feel _anything_ , sure.

But Stiles knows that it’s also because Kira doesn’t usually like to drink, either, and he likes to have as clear a head as possible whenever he’s around her; something grossly cute and also gross about wanting to soak in every moment he has with her. Stiles knows that this is because he has trust issues, now, because of Allison, because she’d been taken from them—from him—far too soon.

It’s also because Scott is so damn in love with this girl that he practically radiates happiness anytime they’re near each other.

Stiles is beyond happy for him; after everything happened with Allison, a part of Stiles had been fearful that there would be no returning Scott to his normal self. It was a long and frightening road of a Scott McCall that was anything but sunshine and rainbows, as they were all so used to.

It was a lot of late nights with Stiles on the other end of the phone, just a breath of an existence on the other end of the line, proof that he had not left Scott, either. That he was _there_.

Stiles can’t really remember when Scott had stopped calling, when it had become normal for him to not call, but eventually things coasted clear of the danger zone. And then, like a gift dropped right into their laps, Kira moved into town.

Stiles has never, _ever_ seen Scott as happy as he is with Kira.

Not since Allison.

And that’s how he knows, without a doubt, that Scott is going to be okay. That Stiles doesn’t have to worry as much, though he’s definitely still going to worry like a _wart_ , because that’s what he does. He worries.

It’s still lemonade-on-a-hot-day refreshing to know that there’s someone out there that can make Scott smile in ways that even Stiles can’t.

So, Stiles can mark Scott and Kira down for relatively sober superheroes for the night. That leaves Isaac, who has never had a drink in his life for fear of losing his inhibitions and becoming vulnerable enough to shift between the man he’s trying so hard to be and the monster of his father, forever looming over him. He, too, will be a sober superhero for the night.

Boyd will drink, certainly, and he’ll drink a _ton_. The man is a tank. And it’s Lydia’s birthday, so she’s certainly going to be plastered. She handles her liquor like a fifty-year old widow of three kids and husbands alike, though, so Stiles isn’t too worried about her.

Erica is a wildcard; one’s never certain if she wants to be completely sober so as to better mess with all the drunk peoples’ minds, or utterly hammered until her already skewed personality loosens right up as a pool noodle. Stiles finds amusement (and terror) in both forms, so he’s definitely going to be wary of her tonight.

Stiles is fairly certain that he’s going to give himself a one-drink limit for the night. It’s got nothing to do with a traumatic past, like Isaac, or the fact that he’s still underage and his father’s the sheriff. It’s actually more along the lines of personal preference—sometimes he likes to get drunk and have sloppy make out sessions with someone, even when they almost always evolve into something awkward that will undoubtedly be brought up by some sadistic soul in a pack meeting; it’s whatever.

But sometimes he likes to make sure that everyone’s doing okay, too, and he can’t do that properly if he can barely walk. And okay, maybe sometimes he sort of feels like a liability to the pack when he drinks because he’s _human_ and he’s an easy enough target for enemies of the pack as it is, even more so when adding inebriation into the mix.

But it’s not even _that_ , tonight, though he’d honestly love to pretend it is.

It’s this annoyingly persistent spark of hope in his chest that keeps reminding him of Derek’s strong shoulders, the sharp edge of his shadowed jaw, the plump bow of his lips. Of the possibility that if he’s drunk tonight Derek will never kiss him, not knowing that Stiles isn’t one hundred percent able to give his consent. Of the possibility that if he’s drunk tonight, he won’t have clear memories of what happens.

It’s not like he’s _expectant_. He’s actually sort of clinging onto that hope even while he wishes it away. On the one hand, he really, _really_ wants to get kissed. By Derek Hale. But then on the other hand, he really, _really_ does not want to get rejected. By Derek Hale.

See the struggle? How real it is?

Maybe if he didn’t have the knowledge and firsthand experience of the hidden sides of Derek, of the gentleness that appears not in the absence of violence, but despite it, or the heart-wrenchingly sincere tenor he uses in hushed tones when he and Stiles lie together in his bed, telling untold truths.

Maybe if he didn’t have these things in his mind, then nothing would have changed. Maybe he wouldn’t be so jittery and anxious, on a level that even he isn’t used to, wondering if tonight he might get lucky enough to feel Derek’s lips against his own.

Maybe he wouldn’t have the courage to want to pursue that kiss.

“Dude,” Scott says, and Stiles turns, face still frozen in bemused reflection. “Do I look okay?”

“You do know that you guys are _already dating_ , right?”

“Yeah, but I still want to look good! It’s a party, man. I want to impress her.”

Stiles does not roll his eyes, mostly because it reads as a very Derek thing to do and he doesn’t want to even _think_ about Derek anymore right now. Instead, he glances over Scott’s sneakers, jeans, and white Henley.

“You look good man, fresh and clean. Must be the underwear.”

“Must be,” Scott agrees, beaming at Stiles’s sincere praise. He turns back to the mirror one last time and runs a hand through his floppy hair. “Thanks, bro.”

“Aren’t you going to compliment me? Does your silence mean I look like a train wreck? Scott! Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I don’t have time to go home and get changed again; oh my God I’m a fool. I look like a fool. Quick, toss me one of your best shirts!”

“Stiles,” Scott grins, turning towards him with an amused and diffident air about him. “You look great, man. My bad for not saying anything, you know how I get when I think about Kira. And besides, my shirts wouldn’t fit you anyways, man.”

He bites his lip. “Yeah, yeah, you get all goo-goo-gaga whenever you think about her, I’m well aware. And also? Rude? About the shirt comment?”

“Come on, Stiles,” Scott wheedles, trying and failing to hide his amused grin as he comes over to stand by Stiles in front of the mirror. They both turn to look at Stiles’s long legs in his tight black jeans; the black and red plaid button-up that’s just this side of too-big on him in the shoulders. He fidgets with the cuffs around his wrists, glances at the scuffs on his classic Converse. He’s an inch taller than Scott, but Scott’s got the wide, heavily sculpted shoulders and tapered waist that Stiles has always envied. He’s built thick and muscular and looks especially so when standing next to Stiles.

Stiles has muscles, enough to have the tiniest hint of abs showing through, but he’s got nothing on Scott, or Boyd, or _Derek_.

“I’m hefty.” Scott admits, almost shyly. “You know that.”

“ _Hefty_ ,” Stiles mutters, and this time he _does_ roll his eyes. “I’m a beanpole in comparison. You can say it. We’re both thinking it. But you know what? Every time I lift my advanced calculus textbook I feel like my biceps grow a centimeter. If I do enough arm curls with that bad boy, I’m destined to get somewhere close to werewolf approved.”

Something in Scott’s eyes flashes by too quickly for Stiles to notice, but then he’s turning to him with an impish expression, brows lifted and eyes bright.

“Which werewolf’s approval are you looking for?”

“What?” Stiles asks, confused for only a moment before he retraces his steps and realizes. “Oh, no, wait. Like, general werewolf approval. Not just one werewolf. Why do you ask? And why are you giving me that look?”

“No reason, bro, no reason.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at him for a long moment, but eventually nods in acceptance of dropping the subject. He’s too busy trying to tame the whirling of his vibrant thoughts and the endless flapping and fluttering of his stomach as he tries to make up some sort of game plan for the night.

He’s trying to decide between avoiding Derek completely or just seeking him out after a thorough round of self-motivating. Preferably with that one drink. And a mirror so he knows his face is doing things he actually wants it to be doing.

Actually, now that he thinks about it, he’s not ever certain if Derek is coming to the party.

“Is Derek coming to Lydia’s?” he blurts, internally cursing his lack of brain-to-mouth filter. Scott turns to him with that same impish expression, like he knows something that Stiles doesn’t know but he’s actually for once in his life not going to spill it, and Stiles feels the hairs on his nape stand up in warning. “Scott?”

“I’m not sure,” Scott replies, hesitant but careful with his words. The expression is gone in a blink, though, and then he’s back to his sunny, charming self again. He claps a hand on Stiles’s shoulder and says, “I guess we’ll see tonight. You ready to go?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Stiles lies, swallowing. He wonders if he could get away with just staying home in his boxers watching Daredevil on his laptop. Even as he thinks it, though, he heads out to his jeep with Scott and before he knows it, they’re parking a couple of streets away from Lydia’s house, the closest free spot they can find, close enough to hear the deafening roar of the bass coming from inside her place.

Scott is overjoyed; there’s a bounce in his step and he’s already bobbing his head to the music Stiles can only barely hear. For a second he forgets his best friend is a werewolf and wonders how he can hear the beat so clearly. Then he remembers with a forehead smack and an accompanying _duh_.

He pulls the gifts they’d gotten Lydia from the jeep and hitches them under his armpit, hoping his nervous sweat stains don’t defile them.

Scott chirps, “Tonight’s gonna be awesome, dude!”

Stiles breathes deeply and feels some of the tension leak out of him, if only for a moment.

“It’s definitely gonna be _somethin'_.”

 

✧

 

“Oh dear God,” Stiles gasps, walking through a cloud of cologne stronger than anything he’s ever smelled before in his life. “How is the pack still _standing_.”

Beyond the absolutely frightening overuse of cologne and body spray from the male populace inside Lydia Martin’s magnificently massive and beautiful home, the party is everything Stiles had known it would be. The music is incredible, the thriving masses inside and outside all laughing and dancing and drinking to their heart’s desire, and there are snacks literally _everywhere_. The lighting is bright in certain places and near non-existent in others, which leads to countless make out spots that only serve to remind Stiles of exactly what he has been trying to forget.

It’s been over an hour and he hasn’t seen Derek yet.

But! The night is still so very young and he, too, is young, so he follows Erica back into the kitchen for his first and only drink. Upon hearing this rule-of-the-night, Erica had promptly burst into laughter. After noticing his bland expression and the way he was so _not_ joking, she’d straightened with this sympathetic head tilt, her smirk a slight thing.

“Oh babe,” She’d said, sounding sympathetic. Stiles is still wondering to this day if she’s psychic.

“I just don’t feel like getting drunk tonight, okay? It’s not a big deal.”

“Sure,” she’d said, patting his shoulder. She’d kept looking at him from under her lashes, mischievous and secretive, a blurred reflection of Scott’s earlier expression. Stiles narrows his eyes at her. “But if you’re seriously only gonna have one drink, I’m making it. Promise me.”

And because she is persuasive as all hell, and beautiful, and intelligent, and _Erica_ , he’d promised her. Now, an hour later, he sniffs cautiously at the drink in his hand and recoils bodily, flailing. He knows _instantly_ that he’s going to regret the holy hell out of trusting his one and only drink to her of all people—he’d known it when he’d promised, but she’s _Erica_ and she’s so damn good at getting her way.

“Is this going to kill me?” he squeaks, taking another cautious sniff. He can almost feel the cilia in his nostrils burning away. “Is this acid?”

Erica rolls her eyes and an elbow of a passing patron finds her side. She delightedly gives him one in return with a little more _unf_ , and beams at the guy when he turns and apologizes. His eyes widen when he sees her, interest curling over his expression.

“Don’t even think about it,” she says, lifting a finger to waggle in his face. “I’m not interested.”

The guy leaves with his tail between his legs and Stiles almost feels bad for him. Almost. Erica turns back to him and crosses her arms over her chest, emphasizing the way her low-cut red top molds to her form. “Stiles, don’t be a baby.”

Stiles’s ears perk at that and he tries so hard not to hear Derek’s voice that night in his bathroom, when he’d had Derek’s hands on his body, his voice so close to his ear it had stirred the hairs there. He scowls.

“Why does everyone keep _calling_ me that?”

Erica does not deem that with a verbal response. She merely glances at the cup and back at Stiles, not even needing one. Stiles feels the thrumming of the bass all the way in his bones, rattling his skeleton, pushing against his skin. He’s a little on the warm side in his long-sleeve shirt, even though it’s freezing outside; a mass of packed bodies will do that to a person.

He swallows heavily and takes the most pathetic sip he can manage and instantly feels betrayed.

“Erica!” he wails, sputtering around the liquid burning a hot trail down his throat. “I thought you loved me!”

She grins like a wildfire, quick and hot, lips red as life. “I do love you, Stiles. That’s why I’m going to stay with you until you finish the damned thing.”

Stiles makes an injured noise, like she’s punched him right in the gut. “I will _pay_ you not to make me finish this poison. What _is_ it?”

Erica sniffs, eyes sliding over his shoulder with casual boredom.

“It’s called a Zombie,” she says, and he watches her eyes land on someone with purpose, brightening in an instant with interest and delight. He glances back into his cup and stares at the orange liquid, jostling around his ice cubes.

“Do they call it that because it kills whoever drinks it? Is this a supernatural thing? Do you have something to tell me? Oh my God. Erica if you turn me into a zombie, how am I supposed to make use of my zombie bunker? I’ve been stocking it since elementary school! I’ll have become the enemy! I can’t use my zombie bunker if _I’m the zombie_.”

“It won’t kill you,” Erica snorts, distracted now. She’s twirling her cup in slow motions and Stiles can see some sort of scheme crafting itself in the play of her shifting expressions.

“But?” he demands, nearly shrieking to be heard over the music. “It won’t kill me, _but…_ ”

And then, before he can hear the rest of her comment, the part that’s supposed to make him feel _better_ , she’s setting her cup down and moving around him, determination in every line of her. He turns and watches her move, mouth gaping, eyes wide.

She glances over her shoulder at him one last time and points from her eyes to his, mouth turned up in a threatening smile.

“You better finish that! I’ll be watching you.”

And then she’s gone, moving through the crowd with practiced ease. He glances ahead of her, aghast and a little frightened, and sees Boyd heading towards the pool outside. He should’ve known.

So now he’s standing alone in the kitchen, Zombie drink in hand, fearful that if he puts the cup down someone might drink it and he’ll become a murderer—or worse, he dumps it in the sink and Erica somehow finds out and _disembowels him_.

He’s stuck between a rock and a hard place and so he holds onto the deadly drink, even lifts it a couple of times to take delicate sips that feel as though they burn right through him. He heads out of the kitchen because he keeps getting jostled and he’s not entirely certain that the contents of his drink are safe to get on his skin—he’s almost certain one of the ingredients is sulfuric acid.

He makes his way through the crowd, keeping the cup close to his chest so as to not spill it, and wonders idly where Scott and Kira wandered off too. He’s fairly certain they’ll be on the occupied dance floor, so he heads in the opposite direction and ends up finding Isaac at an arm-wrestling table, charging challengers a dollar for each attempt to defeat him. Stiles gapes, hands cradling his drink.

Isaac notices him instantly with a sniff and Stiles takes a moment to be a little offended.

“Hey,” he says, slamming his current contender’s hand down hard enough to definitely leave a bruise behind. Stiles thinks, he isn’t quite certain, but he _thinks_ that it’d been an accident because Stiles’s presence had distracted him. “What’s up?”

His defeated challenger drops a five on the table and scuttles off, obviously defeated in more ways than one. Isaac snatches the bill from the table and stuffs it in his pocket, his smirk self-satisfied. “Nothing much. Erica tried to kill me.”

“Tried?” Isaac asks, brow rising as his next contender settles across from him, muscles bulging. Isaac barely looks at him, sliding his dainty hand against the bulk of the other guy’s without looking away from Stiles. “She’s losing her touch.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Stiles gestures to the cup in his hand. “This is pure acid. She calls it a Zombie.”

Isaac makes a face at that, while his challenger says _go!_ and he lets him think he has a chance for a short moment before slamming his hand down with ease. He glances over at him with a curious expression, asking, “Want another shot?”

The guy, apparently, wants twelve other shots, one of which comes in liquid form. Isaac ends up stuffing eleven bucks into his bulging pocket before accepting another contender. She slides into the seat and makes eyes at Isaac like she doesn’t much care for the setting but definitely wants to hold his hand. Stiles wonders if he should admire or pity her, because he can kind of see him in her place if Isaac had been Derek instead. Isaac smiles at her, all charm.

He lets her struggle for a bit and then slams her hand down, with considerably less force than those prior to her. She laughs and shirks off, apparently satisfied. Isaac slips a dollar into his already bulging pocket—how long has he been _doing_ this? The next girl that slides into the seat is serious as a heart attack, dead-set on winning. Isaac gives her the same flirtatious smile with a lot less shyness and a lot more hostility.

“I think I remember her giving Boyd a Zombie, once,” Isaac turns back to him, ignoring the way the girl seems to be studying his hand as if the answer to defeating him is in the lines of his palm. “He drank the whole cup in ten minutes.”

“That’s probably a huge part of her thing for him,” Stiles reflects, bobbing his head. Isaac seems to agree, which is an odd but pleasant feeling since he and Stiles rarely agree on anything. “But still, does she think I can do the same? How can I possibly compare to _Boyd_ in the drinking department? Dude’s a beast!”

Isaac’s eyes scan over him scornfully, smug and amused. “No idea.”

“Rude,” Stiles points at him, then shakes his head as he tries to get another sip down. He’s certain he’s taken, like, five whole _gulps_ , but the thing just isn’t dissipating. He wonders if he can pass off being a sloppy dancer and spilling it periodically over the dance floor but the thought dies as soon as it is born. Erica has _ways_.

“It’s been fun,” Isaac quips in a tone that sounds like it’s been anything _but_ ; he turns back to the girl for their third round and flexes his fingers. She looks scarily determined. Stiles feels for her and her impending loss, too. “But I’m sort of in the middle of something.”

“Scams,” Stiles mutters under his breath, shaking his head in disappointment. Then, over his shoulder as he heads out of the room, “You should be ashamed!”

To himself, he says, “But who’s gonna be walking out of this party loaded, Stilinski? Definitely not you!”

He’s still shaking his head when he catches a flash of Scott and Kira on the dance floor, laughing and grinding and sweating. A lot. A lot of all of that. He smiles, though, because they’re too damned cute to do anything less than smile at. He heads towards them a bit, fingers tapping listlessly against his cup as he moves closer to the wall and the shadows there. There’s a little cutout in the wall, one that he fits into perfectly and which also lets him get mostly out of the flashing lights for a bit.

He tucks himself back into it and ignores the way he can feel the lightest of buzzes in his brain, not enough that he can really be called tipsy, but enough that he knows that this drink in his hands is actually capable of killing him. She wants him to drink the whole damn thing. Is she _kidding_?

“There’s no way in Hades.” he announces to the back of the stranger a few steps in front of him, mingling in front of the dance floor. He huffs to himself. It’s strangely nice to be on his own in the midst of this party, especially when he’s usually with one of his friends for the entire night. It usually just happens like that, him sticking with them or vice versa.

This? This is cool, too. Getting to tuck himself into a shady spot and people watch, while also contemplating retribution for the misdeeds done against him by one of his own, Erica of all people! Well, he’s not that surprised. He’s not surprised at all. If anything he’s negative in the surprise quota.

“There has to be some sort of werewolf misconduct guide out there in the world that involves poisoning your non-werewolf friends.” He mumbles to himself, lifting his free hand to card idly through his hair. “I’m fairly certain our alpha would have to scold her aggressively, at the very least, for what she has tried to _do_ to my gorgeous body—”

“What would your alpha have to do?” someone suddenly asks, just over his shoulder, frightening him right into a violent flail. Some of the contents of his cup go flying and he’s honestly so happy about that that he doesn’t even immediately check if he’s spilled on anyone, and he doesn’t immediately scold Derek for sneaking up on him from the shadows like he usually would. His heart is, admittedly, in his throat again but he’s too damn pleased about the cup mishap to care.

“Thank you!” he blurts, grinning like a demon. “Dude I have been trying to get rid of this cup _all night_ , I don’t even care that you very nearly scared the piss right out of me, I am so thankful.” He glances back into his cup and frowns, noticing that there’s still about a fourth of a cup left. He looks back up at Derek, leaning against the wall, and purses his lips.

“Could’ve made me spill the _whole_ cup, though.” He mutters, but shrugs the next instant. It’s then that he realizes that he’s speaking to _Derek_ and that that means Derek is here, at the party, speaking to him. His eyes drop down Derek’s body, a cursory glance he doesn’t even pretend is casual because it happens before he even realizes it does; he takes in the jeans that fit perfectly on his body, the plain gray shirt under his favorite leather jacket.

“You didn’t really dress up for the party, did you?” Stiles asks, grinning.

Derek’s expression doesn’t change, remaining entirely unaffected by Stiles’s observation. Stiles clears his throat, feeling awkward again. He rubs at the back of his neck and seems to remember that he might’ve spilled on someone, which makes him whip around, eyes searching. There’s a stain on the carpet that he’s pretty sure just cost him his balls once Lydia finds out it was him, but other than that, there’s no angry patrons preparing to storm his temple. The temple that is his body. And face.

He turns back to Derek and, yeah, definitely still there and as beautiful and intimidating as always. His eyes gleam in the darkness of the alcove they’re in, a flickering green that draws Stiles in and makes his heart flutter. He presses the cup against his chest, over his heart, as if to hide the change in pace from Derek’s awareness. He’s fairly certain that in close proximity with so many heartbeats, Derek won’t be able to pinpoint Stiles’s in particular, but then again. Alpha.

There should definitely be more articles or books or something about alpha powers. Stiles has things he needs to _know_.

“Enjoying yourself?” He asks, after a long moment of silence between them. He doesn’t really expect Derek to answer, which of course means he does. He shrugs his shoulders, the movement extraordinarily predatory for so simple a gesture.

“Just got here.”

“I see, the good ol’ fashionably late excuse. Nice.”

“I had something to do, first.”

This has Stiles raising a brow, curious. He doesn’t ask, but then again he’s fairly certain Derek wouldn’t tell even if he had. He’s got that expression of doom and gloom on again, the one that means he’d been doing secretive alpha werewolf things in the night even when there was no sign of monsters or mischief and he had a party to be at. Typical Derek.

“Well at least you’re here,” Stiles says, and then laughs nervously because that sounded a lot more relieved than he’d intended. “Have you had a drink? Do you want a drink? I could get you a drink. Actually, do you want this? It’s…delic—no, never mind, I can’t do that to anyone, even you. I just can’t stomach it. Pun intended in any way that that might fit the situation. _Anyways_.”

“If you don’t like it,” Derek asks, slowly as though Stiles is hard of hearing. “Then why do you have it?”

Stiles groans. “Erica made it for me. That’s sort of what I was talking to myself about earlier when you scared the almost-piss out of me. I was thinking of ways for her to be punished for this offense. She calls it…a Zombie. I think the name is incredibly fitting since it taste like a fresh death.”

Derek smirks, amused. Stiles feels his heart do that flip-flop thing he’s quickly associating as a result of Derek’s amusement when Stiles is concerned.

“Throw it out,” Derek says, like it’s that easy. “She won’t know you did. She’s with Boyd in the back.”

“She has _ways_ , man. Sneaky, creepy, _ways_.”

Derek doesn’t say anything immediately, but Stiles can almost hear the unspoken words between them.

_Trust me._

His chest feels tight and he wonders if Derek doesn’t feel comfortable enough with him to say them out loud, doesn’t trust Stiles enough yet to offer him something like that. But then he glances up and sees Derek’s smile, soft and small and sincere, and he thinks maybe he’s mistaken. Maybe it’s there, in his expression, stronger and more sincere than words. Isn’t that how Derek usually is? Expressive through gestures and body language?

He’s socially awkward most of the time, often coming off as rude or bored even when he’s not intending to. Words have always been a struggle for him, at least as long as Stiles has been close enough to know anything about him. He knows from stories around school that he’d been a different person before the fire, a social butterfly of sorts, charming and debonair without even trying.

Sometimes when they’re together and they manage to joke with one another, Stiles can see that side of him, hidden for so long, pushed down with all of the memories that share time with that easy personality. Stiles knows that he’s admired Derek for a long time, and started falling in love with him even before he got to see the hidden sides of him.

But he also knows that the first time Derek showed him a side no one else had seen before, not since the fire, that he was in love. And with each hidden piece of Derek’s broken life coming to light for Stiles, he knows he’s falling deeper and deeper.

It’s easy to love Derek Hale. Stiles has never in his life thought that those words would ever become his.

Stiles finds himself nodding, a goofy smile crawling up his lips. “Okay, yeah. Deal.”

He stands there for a moment longer, studies the lines of Derek’s face, softened in amusement.

“Don’t move,” he says, tone rising in pitch near the end. “Please? I’ll be right back.”

Derek nods, not hesitating for a moment. He presses his back to the wall and leans his head back, too, his eyes slipping shut. Stiles licks his lips and doesn’t think about the thick column of his exposed throat, and all the ways he’d like to press his lips against it. He shuffles through the crowd, keeping an eye out for intimidating blonde girls with Bambi brown eyes all the while. He makes it into the kitchen and heads directly for the sink, instantly dumping the contents down the drain. He washes it down with the faucet, just in case, and isn’t surprised for a moment how easy it had been for Derek to convince him to do this.

He doesn’t think much about it. He turns, planning to head right back over to Derek—to do what, he doesn’t even know, but he’s hoping for more conversation and maybe that _kiss_ —when he rams right into someone a head taller than him, his thinner body bouncing back against the sink.

“Woah, man, sorry!” he says, glancing up with an apologetic grin. “Body’s moving too quick for my brain to keep up.”

His smile drops the moment he sees that he’s rammed into Jackson, and that the man in question is giving him a look he’s certain an ordinary, non-asshole of a person would still reserve for a cockroach.

“Same old, same old, huh dickweed?”

“Jackson, my favorite person in the whole world to plot _murder_ about. What fun to see you tonight. Aren’t you supposed to be staring in a mirror somewhere? Obsessing over that tiny crook in your nose that just _barely_ offsets your features? Definitely an issue, if you need an objective opinion. Just saying.”

“How does it feel to be invited to my girlfriend’s party, knowing that your little crush on her means nothing to her? That she’s gonna be with me all night long?”

Stiles snorts. “Dude, Lydia is my buddy, my pal. It’s not like that anymore. Hasn’t been for years, which you’d know, if you had any sort of awareness about you, but alas. We can’t all be useful.”

“Fuck off,” Jackson sneers, shouldering into him before moving past, heading towards the back room where Stiles is fairly certain Isaac is still stealing people’s money via arm wrestling.

“Nice chatting with you!” Stiles calls after him, grinning. “Not!”

“That’ll show him,” the guy next to Stiles laughs, and even though Stiles is fairly certain he’s being sarcastic and a little bit rude, he holds out his fist to him anyways and waits for their knuckles to slap together. After they do, he feels marginally prouder of himself than he had before, and heads back to Derek with a new spring in his step.

He turns the corner and opens his mouth to explain his verbal smack down with Jackson only to find the space where Derek had been empty. Well, not necessarily empty, as there are now two couples making out on either side of the hallway and a new group of friends standing directly over the stain Stiles’s drink made in the white carpet. He frowns, dejected at the loss of Derek’s presence, wondering if he’ll get to see him again before the night is over.

He pulls out his phone and checks the time, only to find two text notifications from Derek himself. The first message is typical Derek, short and to the point:

                    _Upstairs._

The second message seems an afterthought, still clipped but intending to clarify.

_Too crowded._

Stiles glances up the stairs, knowing that they’re strictly off-limits to literally everyone but Lydia herself, and whomever she decides can break the rules. But if Derek is already up there and the sign that’d been poised across the entrance to the stairs is already missing, then Stiles doesn’t think it can hurt if he goes up there, too.

He hesitates, though. For just a moment. He wonders what Derek is doing upstairs, where there are several private bedrooms, maybe an office, and couple bathrooms. A part of him hopes he’s in the office, glancing through the library in there, reading the alphabetized titles with lilting curiosity.

The rest of him, the overwhelming majority, hopes he’s in a bedroom.

He fidgets at the foot of the stairs, trying to come up with that ever-elusive game plan. He knows what he wants, and he thinks he has the courage to pursue it if he’s given the right signs.

But that’s just the thing; Derek doesn’t _give_ signs. Not to Stiles.

Stiles does not want to force his affections on the alpha of his best friend’s pack, potentially ruining the cohesiveness of the group as a whole because even if he did, even if everything between them goes to hell and becomes awkward, he’s not leaving. And Derek certainly isn’t leaving. So the fate of the entire pack is, in a way, riding on this one decision that seems so small but feels so monumentally huge to Stiles.

He thinks back to his and Derek’s recent interactions, tries to find damning evidence that Derek might be interested in him in any way that isn’t just as a researcher, or Scott’s best friend, or someone he can frequently scowl at. He comes up with disjointed memories, bits and pieces that aren’t conclusive.

Derek keeps things between them civil, if a little intimidating. He’s perpetually gruff and sarcastic, but Stiles is sarcastic too, maybe even more so. Definitely even more so. He can’t think of a single time that had ever been a moment of clarity, an ah-ha moment where he realized that Derek might actually be okay with Stiles kissing him.

But Derek visits his room often, sleeps in his bed, and patches him up when he can.

He’s gentle with him, but respectful, and appreciative of what Stiles does for the pack.

Stiles heaves a sigh, knowing that whatever is to come is going to have to be played by the book, close to his chest. He’s going to have to take it a step at a time, and that means no active game plan, no preparation, and no overanalyzing. He’s going to have to be natural.

“I can be natural,” he says, bobbing his head. “I can be _totally_ natural. All natural. Whole grain.”

He heads up the stairs and does not panic. He only panics when he gets to the _top_ of the stairs, because he’s a mature adult. He may or may not have to give himself one last pep talk before approaching the closest door. He doesn’t even knock on it, some part of him knowing without having to check that Derek isn’t in there. Stiles puts himself in Derek’s shoes and thinks about where he’d go, if he had priority on which room to choose.

It’s almost too easy to choose the room closest to the street, with an outward facing window that Derek could easily leap through to escape or chase anything threatening.

He knocks gently on the door and receives no answer as he pushes inside. Derek is by the window, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, making the back of his leather jacket strain over his wide shoulders. Stiles clears his throat.

“Uh, can I come in?” he jokes, laughing lightly. Derek glances over his shoulder and nods, once. Stiles closes the door behind him as quietly as he can, and then he presses himself back against it, hand still on the doorknob. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, the tension in the room suddenly falling over him like rain, seeping into his pores.

“Sorry it took me so long,” Stiles says. “I had to deal with Jackson.”

“I know.”

“You know?” Stiles stares at him, eyebrow raised. Derek turns slightly, lets the moonlight peering in glide over him, illuminating his face. He lifts a hand and taps his ear with his pointer finger, as if to say, _werewolf. Alpha werewolf. Super hearing_. Then, almost hesitantly, he taps the side of his nose as well.

“Right,” Stiles nods, then gets a little flustered a moment later. “Wait. Are you saying you could smell me down there? With all those people?”

Derek frowns, brows coming down. “I can smell Jackson on you right now.”

Stiles waits a beat, glancing across Derek’s features. “Oh.”

He doesn’t mean to sound disappointed. He’s not even really certain he is disappointed, because for a moment there he’d been a little offended. Does he smell bad?

Derek watches the changes flicker over his expressions, and the way he hasn’t taken a step fully into the room. He turns back towards the window, standing off to the side of it a bit because he’s never not on alert for danger. Then, almost as if he isn’t certain if he should admit it, he tells Stiles another truth he usually would’ve kept hidden.

“I _can_ smell you, though. Downstairs. With all those people.”

“Oh,” Stiles repeats, swallowing. “Do I smell that bad? I swear I bathe regularly. Okay semi-regularly. I could bathe _more_ , but I read this thing about natural body oils and it said—”

“You don’t smell bad,” Derek grits out, jaw suddenly clenched. He drags his fingers through his hair, a nervous habit Stiles recognizes. It makes him even more curious.

Derek glances over his shoulder at him, more tentative than Stiles has ever seen him.

“You smell good.”

Stiles pauses, then asks, “Good like a meal good? Or good like… _good_?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Good like good _._ ”

Stiles tries not to smile. “ _Good_ to know. Can you hear me too? I have a very distinct voice, and I do talk a little bit more than the next guy, so.”

“A little bit?” Derek huffs, but he’s grinning. Stiles pretends to be offended, pushing himself away from the door and heading a little closer to where Derek is standing. He pretends to study the room, tracing his fingertips over the comforter on the bed, and then the dust-less desktop to his left.

“Okay, funny guy. But seriously, can you hear me from up here?”

“I could probably hear you from the tree line.”

Stiles snorts before he can contain himself. “You’re joking. Are you joking? You need to work on your humor.”

Derek seems abruptly uncomfortable, though Stiles isn’t sure if it’s the jab at his personality—which he honestly barely even _meant_ , it’s not like Stiles has many issues with his personality since he’s in love with the guy—or if it’s something Derek’s preparing to say. Stiles wonders how many truths he’s going to get out of Derek tonight, since he seems to be in a rather forthright mood.

He studies the tense line of Derek’s shoulders, hearing the background thump, thump, thump of the bass coming through the ceiling beneath his feet. There’s the constant buzz of conversation, the every now and again laugh that pierces the silence of the room. He can hear people splashing in the pool outside, just barely, and knows that if he can hear this much that Derek must be getting swamped with noise.

“It’s not your voice I track.” Derek says, tripping a little over the last word, as if he hadn’t meant to say it.

“Not my voice?”

Derek turns completely to face him, then, scowling. He glares at Stiles like whatever it is he’s trying to say is completely Stiles’s fault, and how dare he do this strange mysterious thing to Derek Hale. Stiles bites his lip, impatient to hear the answer, but he waits until Derek is ready to say it. To admit it.

Stiles feels loose, comfortable; a side effect of the atmosphere, maybe. Or perhaps of Derek’s presence, so calm and quiet, still where Stiles is restless. He drums his fingers against the side of his leg along to the beat coming from downstairs, his head bobbing ever so slightly without his notice. Whoever is spinning actually has incredible taste, and he wants to remember to ask Lydia whom she’d managed to get for future reference. He glances up, then, and wonders if Derek is enjoying the music, too. Stiles realizes suddenly that he doesn’t know what kind of music Derek listens to, what his favorite bands are. It irks him.

Derek sighs, a great heaving thing that runs the tension straight out of his shoulders one moment only to rebuild and tighten them back up again the next.

“Your heartbeat.” He mutters. “I listen for your heartbeat.”

Derek looks as though he’s prepared himself for any number of reactions from Stiles and none of them good; he’s gearing to do ground control, waiting for an explosion. Stiles forgets momentarily about the music and the amount of small details he doesn’t yet know about Derek Hale and merely frowns at him, worrying at his lip distractedly. He ignores the way his heart picks up speed and the way he can’t ignore it for the life of him, not now that he knows Derek _tracks_ the sound of it. It sounds louder, feels heavier in his chest.

“My heartbeat?” he asks, clarifying. Derek nods slowly, a wary response. “Is it so different from everyone else’s? How is it easier to track than my voice?”

Stiles thinks this question is a safe one, until he glances up from Derek’s lips to his eyes and sees the caginess there, the added lines of tension in his neck. Stiles had thought he was in a safe zone but had instead leapt onto a landmine. Derek’s pinched expression has Stiles feeling anxious, certainly, but it also encourages him to step closer, to approach him more openly, now. He’s not afraid anymore, not worried about what he can do without throwing things out of whack, or what he can’t do for the sake of the pack. He’s simply _interested_. And curious. So damn curious.

Derek’s expression doesn’t change as he gives a reluctant explanation, lifting a hand to absentmindedly rub at the back of his neck. The moonlight slides over him and makes him glow, turning his magnificent green eyes into a haunting silver that captures Stiles and holds him prisoner to Derek’s stare. Misty clearings in the forest, lush with vegetation, thick with trees. Derek’s eyes are every beautiful scenic memory Stiles has stored; in sporadic order, according to mood, shifted by lighting.

Stiles wonders how the hell he does that.

“Your heartbeat,” Derek begins, voice low. “It’s often irregular. Speeds up out of nowhere. It…stands out.”

“I can’t be the only dude with anxiety in the house, man.”

“You’re not,” Derek assures him. “But yours is the most familiar to me.”

Stiles hesitates, not knowing exactly how he’s feeling in response to such a thing. Derek Hale, listening to his heartbeat, _knowing_ his heartbeat well enough to identify him in a crowd of hundreds, all the way from the tree line if need be. What the hell does that even _mean_?

Finally, he asks, “Is that normal? Do all alphas do that?”

Derek’s eyes are watchful, his expression closed off.

“It depends on who you ask.”

Stiles blows a raspberry, shattering the stillness and silence between them. “Well, big guy, I thought I’d made myself relatively clear, but let me crystallize it: I’m asking _you_.”

Without a single pause, Derek says, “It’s normal for me, yes.”

“Okay,” Stiles drags the word out, trying to encourage Derek to explain more. “And that means? What?”

Derek huffs, showing annoyance for the first time tonight. “It means it’s normal to me.”

“Normal to track my heartbeat.”

Derek gives him a _look_ , but Stiles is having none of it. He needs these answers. His heart is never going to settle down if he’s left hanging with all of this new information.

“Yes,” Derek sneers, lip curling.

“Do you do this with Scott? With the rest of the pack?”

“Yes,” he says, before hesitating. He studies Stiles’s open expression, the way his eyes gleam and he’s not recoiling from anything Derek has said so far. Something in his expression must inspire some level of trust in Derek, because his next words come out easier than Stiles would’ve normally expected from him. “But not the same way I monitor yours.”

“Monitor.” He states, makes it a fact, solidifies it through repetition because he doesn’t want Derek to back down from what he’s admitting—from what Stiles _thinks_ he _might_ be admitting. “Track. You’ve used both those words.”

Derek nods, lifting a hand to rub idly at his jaw line.

“What makes it different? How you hear my heart versus how you hear theirs?”

“It’s not in _how_ I hear them,” Derek grits, irritated either with Stiles or with himself for not explaining things properly. From the way he keeps palming his face and shaking his head, Stiles is fairly certain it’s the latter. “It’s how often I choose to hear them. Hear it.”

“Listen,” Stiles says after a long pause, clearing his throat. He lifts his hands, placating, because Derek’s so tense a breeze could knock him over and shatter him into a thousand pieces. Stiles wants answers, he always wants answers, especially in matters where he is directly concerned, but he doesn’t want to break the alpha in the process. He doesn’t want to push too hard; it’s not as though this is the last time they’ll ever speak. They’ve got time to flesh this out. Preferably the next time Derek hops through his window, which better be, like, _tomorrow_.

“I’m not trying to frustrate you or whatever. I just want to know why you treat me differently than the others, at least with this. I kinda get it, though? I mean, they’re pack, so you have an inherently deeper-ish connection with them, right? And they’re strong and okay maybe they’re a little rusty at times, just took the training wheels off and all that, but they’re pretty good at holding their own in monster fights. I, on the other hand, am not so good. At the monster fights thing. Which reminds me, I never got to thank you for the other night since you, uh, leapt right out my window before I could even say anything. Not unexpected but still incredibly poor guest behavior. But yeah, thanks.”

Derek blinks at him, clearly trying to keep up with Stiles’s rambling. Stiles takes a few steps closer until Derek’s in reach, but just barely, and Stiles is bathed in the moonlight streaming through the window.

He stares at Derek and the frustration at not understanding what the hell Derek has been trying so hard to explain dissipates in the face of Derek’s vulnerability, carved stark into his features. His eyes flicker between Stiles’s eyes, wondering, searching; confused and frustrated and molten in a way that Stiles is familiar enough with to want to back away.

He does not back away, though. Not when Derek has peeled back a new layer, several new layers, of the persona he wears to lead his pack; showing Stiles that there is more to him than just the pack’s alpha, but someone who separates them, for some reason Stiles can’t put his finger on. Someone who pays special attention to Stiles. Even though the thought stings him a little, he’s not _helpless_ , it also warms him.

It means that he _means_ something to Derek, outside of the others. Separate from the others. There’s something that keeps Derek’s attention, unwarranted and beautiful, on Stiles even when surrounded by their friends, Derek’s _pack_. Something that makes him stand out. He feels his heart racing in his chest even now, making no mistake that it wants Derek to hear it. He doesn’t try to calm it down or mask it with his voice, he merely continues to study Derek and doesn’t care that his love, soul-deep and weary, pools in the amber of his eyes.

Derek notices immediately, how could he not? He straightens, looks briefly uncomfortable, but Stiles is too distracted with his racing thoughts and his racing heart, every bit of him flying around quicker than he can manage.

His brain is an overworked engine whirring and sparking but he can’t stop thinking about how Derek is so honest with him, vulnerable when he certainly doesn’t _have_ to be; how he treats Stiles’s wounds when Stiles can clearly treat them himself; how he tends to Stiles like he would for his pack; how incredibly endearing he is and how his lips are terrible in the best way and how much Stiles _loves_ him and maybe he’s sort of admirable as a leader and woah, wait, does this mean he considers Stiles pack?

All those times that Derek tended to him and nurtured him even though it seemed so directly against his nature—that time he’d come to Stiles’s room even when he was supposed to be avoiding him, simply to ensure that there wasn’t a rift between him and the others. It all seems so clear, now, in retrospect. Because, usually, he’d only really bother to take care of pack, right? Is that what this is? He’s showing that he’s accepting Stiles into the pack?

“Oh,” he breathes, and Derek’s expression only becomes more bewildered, knotted with worry.

“Okay, yeah, thanks for this.” He gestures to himself, to the wounds Derek recently helped tend, and then the rest of him; an all-encompassing sweep of his hands over the length of his body. “For all of this. You didn’t have to do any of it, man, but thanks? And if this is your way of telling me that I’m accepted into the pack now, like officially I get to show up at meetings and _not_ be a nuisance you try to glare out the door—and sometimes hurl, actually, right out the door—then I’m totally getting the signal loud and clear, Gordon. Batman acknowledges.”

Stiles watches Derek’s expression screw up into something confused and distinctly agitated, and he feels like his stomach drops through his feet onto the floor beneath them. His ears flush hot and pink, pigments arising on the crests of his cheekbones. The Zombie drink adds to the cloudiness of his brain, all so suddenly, and the embarrassment feels the tiniest bit similar to the beginnings of an anxiety attack. He makes a noise halfway between a moan of embarrassment and a yelp, shrill and eager to backtrack.

“Oh my God, okay, uh, if I’m totally imagining all of that and that’s not what any of this is at all—why would it be? Way to jump to conclusions, Stilinski, shit. Of course not, I’m human, why would I get to be a part of the pack? Not ‘get to be,’ I mean I know it’s not that easy and there are _rules_ and things—research! It’s what I do! I’m awesome at it! I know these things but like maybe I was a little hopeful?” his voice rises in pitch, his cheeks fully flushed now as he continues to scramble in the face of Derek’s unchanged expression. His shoulders are back to being tense, and his jaw ticks once, twice, and Stiles swallows _hard_.

“Okay, yeah, definitely jumped to conclusions, but I didn’t mean to offend anyone? You don’t need to get all sour on me about this, total accident that it is and all. I’m not gonna lie, though, I’m legitimately so confused right now. If this wasn’t some way to accept me into the pack, like some sort of brotherhood ‘I listen to all pack members’ heartbeats’ thing, then I’m lost, dude. Oh, wait, no,”

Stiles pauses, stomach turning at a sudden possible realization. He purses his lips, so damn befuddled; his head begins to really pound, like headache pound, now, before he starts to ramble again.

“Is this another Stiles The Weak Human thing? I need more monitoring because I can’t heal myself in a few hours like all you supers and even though I’m not _pack pack_ I’m still sort-of-pack so—”

“What kind of deluded bullshit,” Derek interrupts, shaking his head with a mean scowl. “Are you spouting right now?”

Stiles does _not_ squeak. “What?”

Derek stays still for a single breath, and then one more, and then he straightens, sliding away from the window and seeming to unfold right in Stiles’s direction. Stiles has half a moment to think _I’m puppy chow_ before he feels Derek’s hands—so careful, yet his skin rough and catching—on his cheeks, thumbs stroking at the heated crests of them. He stares, a little cross-eyed, as Derek rests his forehead against his and sighs, the hot air from his mouth sailing over Stiles’s lips.

“Idiot,” he whispers, with the barest shake of his head. And then Derek moves forward and he’s kissing him. 

It’s nothing like Stiles had dreamed, and he’d had plenty of time to come up with dream scenarios of kissing Derek Hale, loathe as he is to admit it. It’s not rough and fast and terrifyingly sexy, with teeth and tongue at the forefront of his senses. It’s not halfhearted, either, and it’s not chaste.

It’s a subtle pressure, an insistent and almost frustrated slip of Derek’s lips against his, until they’re sharing the same breaths and Derek’s nose is pressing against his own. His stubble rubs at him, not a terrible feeling, and Stiles has to force himself not to swallow again.

This isn’t his first kiss but this is still something he’s never experienced before—it feels nothing like any kiss he’s ever had, like something so much more with far less effort. Like Derek’s lips pressing into his is a natural expression of something others before Derek had tried so hard to prove, or fake.

Like affection.

Love.

Derek pulls back just when Stiles is starting to get his bearings, enough to respond to the kiss, enough to push forward and chase Derek’s retreating lips, damned the consequences. He opens his eyes—when had they shut? Why would he ever waste this moment, maybe a once in a lifetime opportunity, a freak accident somehow? A miracle? By closing his eyes and missing the expression on Derek’s face as he pulls away?

He watches now, wide-eyed and panting a bit, as Derek’s face remains passively perturbed, and maybe slightly amused. His eyes, though, are softer than Stiles has ever seen them, relaxed but still aflame—a slow burning glow like embers turning in a pit, hot enough to melt Stiles by proximity alone.

“Idiot,” Derek says again, but this time, somehow, even when it’s said in the same tone as before, Stiles can _hear_ the affection in it. “You’ve been pack for years. You smell like us, live like us. You _do_ come to the meetings, and you and Scott _are_ a package deal. But even if you didn’t, even if you weren’t, you’d still be pack.”

“I’m?” Stiles stutters, licking his lips. His heart is a speed demon in his chest, pounding painfully. He wonders what Derek thinks of it. “I’m part of the pack?”

“You’re part of _my_ pack. You always have been. Don’t know how the hell you missed that all these years, living alongside us, planning with us, being with us.” Derek admits, a tantalizing mixture of frustrated and embarrassed, his cheeks slightly pink.

Stiles, well. Stiles is trying not to fall down. His knees are quivering like a baby deer’s and he’s sure his eyes are just as caught-in-the-headlights wide, but it’s the disbelief, heavy as a stone the size of the whole damn world, threatening to push him down. Derek had kissed him. Derek had _kissed_ him.

He is pack.

Has always _been_ pack. How could he have been so silly? How did he not understand, all these years?

But then he remembers, gets that stubborn quirk to his lips that he inherited from his mother, and glares up at Derek with as much suspicion as he can manage while still standing close enough to him to taste the mint of his breath.

“Woah, woah, woah,” he starts, shaking his head and wagging a finger in Derek’s face. “Hold the phone. Hold the fuckin’ phone. You never _once_ said that I was pack before this!”

Derek gives him a disdainful look, as if he’s just been too daft to see it all these years.

“What did you think you were?” he asks, and Stiles gawks at the genuine curiosity in his tone, in his gaze.

Stiles flutters, arms flailing, mouth agape. “A friend of the pack, maybe? I don’t know! It was a really weird subject for me to think about, _obviously_ , because I was like the kickass human friend of a werewolf pack, just, ya know, hanging in the balance. Human friend with supernatural researching skill benefits. I didn’t know! What I was! Just that I was sort of on the margin. You totally marginalized me! Supernaturally speaking.”

“Ridiculous,” Derek snorts, actually _snorts_. He glances out the window, surveying, then returns his gaze to Stiles’s incredulous stare with practiced disinterest. “If you didn’t know, then you’re the only one.”

He says it so easily, as if it has been something everyone except for Stiles has known and accepted, just like that. But then he starts to wonder. Was Stiles really the only one who didn’t know? Had _Scott_ known? Stiles had never actually brought it up to Scott, didn’t want to throw a wrench into the way Scott’s life was suddenly beginning to look up—having a pack and Kira to support him through a really rough time in his life had truly been integral in helping him better himself through the long-run.

The last thing Stiles had wanted to do was introduce the confusing chaos of wondering what _his_ fate would be in the long-run—if he was destined to just be in that weird almost-pack situation for the rest of his life. He hadn’t brought it up to _any_ of them, actually, now that he thinks about it.

 _Oh my God_ , he thinks. He was the only one who hadn’t known.

Derek’s expression has shifted into a combination of smug amusement and frustrated disbelief and that makes Stiles want to punch him in the arm. He’s fairly certain that he’d only hurt his knuckles, though. Okay, he’s entirely certain he’d only hurt his knuckles. He settles for a light smack with the back of his hand against the steel of Derek’s chest, which does literally nothing to deter the exasperated grump.

“Maybe, _maybe_ everyone knew but me. Whatever. Jury is still out on that one—”

“Literally everyone knew. Everyone. Verdict accepted.”

“The _jury_ ,” Stiles repeats, louder now and with an accompanying glare. “Is still out on that one. Dude why couldn’t you just give me a hint? I’m a smart guy! I’m so damn smart! I would’ve gotten it, man.”

Derek makes a face and Stiles can almost hear the unsaid words: _clearly not_.

Tossing his arms up over his head, he turns and begins to pace, burning a trail in the carpet under his feet. Derek watches him, smirking all the while, so damn self-righteous Stiles could kiss him. He could just kiss the _hell_ out of him.

“I’ve been waiting 84 years to hear you tell me explicitly that I’m welcome in your werewolf family shenanigans! All you had to say was something like, ‘Stiles, my man, you’re pack.’ Ta-da! _That_ simple, dude.”

“You come to the meetings. I consult you on every supernatural occurrence. You know our secrets, our strengths, our weaknesses.” Derek eyes burn over him, trickling flames. He crosses his arms back over his chest and leans all of his weight on one cocked hip. Stiles paces harder.

“Scott and I,” Stiles says, gesturing to the empty air beside him and then back to his chest. “Package deal. And of course you consult me, I’m the best researcher in town. I’m even better than the knuckleheads that work for my dad! And they get paid! I don’t even get paid. After this debacle, I should definitely get paid.”

Derek continues, unperturbed. “You go hunting with us. You’re under our protection.”

“You’re under mine, too.” Stiles grits, turning to him in a flash, eyes blazing. He needn’t have responded so defensively, though.

“Yes.” Derek nods, agreeing. “Do you really think that we would allow you to do those things if you weren’t one of us? Do you think that _I_ would?”

Stiles hesitates, drawing his lower lip in between his teeth. Derek’s eyes follow the movement.

Stiles thinks about how much time he spends with the pack, how much information about them and their dynamics he’s privy to, how many times he’s been a part of the daily shenanigans they all get themselves wrapped up in. He’d always thought that he’d been allowed to tag along because, first and foremost, he’s an awesome and intelligent researcher. He has wicked Internet skills and creatively intelligent ideas that Derek and the others seem to value.

He’s the most hilarious person he knows, and he knows a lot of persons. And creatures. And other types of living things that can be classified under the umbrella term _supernatural_.

And then there’s his relationship with Scott; being a beta werewolf’s best friend has its perks. At least, that’s what he’d always thought. Now? Now he’s not so sure. Stiles can’t sniff out a lie, or hear the telltale change in a heartbeat that lies always cause, not like a werewolf.

But he’s always considered himself a good sense of character, just like his mom. And growing up as the sheriff’s kid has allowed for him to be intimately familiar with lying and liars.

Derek Hale is no liar.

In fact, he’s one of the most genuine people that Stiles has ever met. It makes tragic sense, when he thinks about it, that someone who had experienced such heartbreaking deceit all his life, with such traumatic consequences, would be averse to lying.

Even Scott, sunshine beam of joy and compassion, lies sometimes. Stiles sure does, that’s not even a question. He’s the _sheriff’s_ son, man. Lying is something he grew up hearing, seeing, doing, and perfecting. Sort of. He’s still working on it, but _not_ in a malicious way! Some things are just better left omitted from his dad’s life.

But Derek, he won’t lie. Not to anyone, not to pack, and especially not to Stiles. What would he have to gain from doing so? And over something like this, that’s pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of things, when he has been sincere and forthright his entire life? Stiles feels like if he continues with this stubbornness, with denying that he’s been the only one misunderstanding all these years, that he’s disrespecting Derek in some way.

And he really, really does not want to do that.

“No,” he whispers, turning to face Derek completely, barely breathing. “I think I—I’ve definitely misunderstood.”

Admitting it doesn’t harm anything but his pride, but the look of surprise and satisfaction that cross over Derek’s expression are worth it thrice over. It’s all in the eyebrows.

Stiles sighs, loudly. Just because he leveled up and admitted he’s been wrong doesn’t mean he has to like it. “Don’t look so smug, big guy.”

“I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard you admit outright that you’re wrong about something.”

“False!” Stiles quips, “I’m wrong about stuff sometimes. Have you seen my life?”

“Can you say that one more time? For the camera?” Derek pulls his phone from his back pocket and aims it at Stiles with a _sneer_ , mean and amused. Stiles rolls his eyes, fighting back a smile.

“Do you even know how to work that thing?”

“Sure do. Erica taught me.”

Stiles scowls. “If I had a drink right now, I’d probably toss it on you.”

“Good thing you wimped out on the Zombie, then, huh?”

“Hey!” Stiles laughs, not meaning to but unable to hold it in. “You were the one who told me to get rid of it!”

Derek shrugs, returning his phone to his back pocket. Stiles is almost unquestionably certain someone is going to be butt-dialed tonight. It’ll probably be him. The jeans Derek has on are _tight_.

“I’m still surprised you listened to me. Erica’s gonna destroy you.”

Stiles’s eyes widen, his finger lifting to point accusingly. He hops a little from foot to foot, mouth gaping. “You!”

Derek laughs, actually _laughs_ , and Stiles can’t hold back the enormity of his grin any longer. Derek sounds so _happy_ , full of amusement and joking with him so easily, and it makes his stupid heart do the stupid loop-de-loop in his chest again and he knows Derek can hear it and damn it, this is his life.

Derek grins, and it’s brighter and more beautiful than the damn full moon outside.

“Yeah,” he snorts, “ _Me_.”

Stiles opens his mouth to retort, not even really knowing what he’s planning on saying, when there’s a booming crash downstairs followed quickly by shouting. Stiles glances over his shoulder in reflex, even though the door is closed between them and the ruckus. He turns back to Derek with a shrug, but straightens when he notices how tense Derek has become. His eyes are almost alpha red, his ears already starting to form into werewolf peaks.

“Stay here, Stiles,” he murmurs, moving past him in a flash. He’s at the door before Stiles even hears his name fall from his lips, whirling in place, eyes trying to track Derek’s swift movements. He’s got the door open, hand on the knob, when he glances over his shoulder and makes eye contact with Stiles one last time.

“I mean it,” he whispers, and his tone isn’t so much a demand anymore. It’s soft, and tender, and Stiles can’t help but raise a fist to press over his heart as it continues to race at Derek’s voice. “Please.”

And then he’s gone, and Stiles is left standing there in amazement, heated from the inside out at Derek’s voice. 

And the fondness in his eyes when he’d said _please_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

“Do you think he’s gonna wet himself every time he sees Derek now? I think he’s gonna wet himself every time he sees Derek now.”

Stiles can’t help the solemn nature of his tone, even if he tries. Scott seems to agree, lifting a hand to rub at his jaw as they head out towards Stiles’s jeep after school. Greenberg isn’t a bad guy, not by all accounts, but he does have worse luck than even Stiles, and it usually gets him into situations he barely manages to survive. It’s a wonder that a supernatural monster hasn’t picked him off yet, truly.

“I mean, probably.” Scott sighs. “Greenberg is always in the wrong place at the wrong time. He wasn’t even drunk! He just happened to stumble into it.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Stiles laughs, slightly amused. He shakes his head. “Stumble right into a fist fight and accidentally hit _Lydia_ , of all people.”

“I don’t even know who he should be more worried about between the two of them.”

“In any other circumstances, I’d say Lydia, no doubt.” Stiles reflects, slinging himself into the driver’s seat and flinging his backpack into the backseat. Scott does the same with a lot less swinging and flinging and a lot more throwing of limbs and body and backpack, which jostles the jeep for a few seconds as Stiles puts his key in the ignition.

“I mean, Lydia is not completely heartless. She knows that his part in all of this was an accident. It’s just a bummer that his was the fist that conked her in the forehead. Otherwise, the two other dudes in question would be her sole victims. He already apologized to her, too.”

“Yeah,” Scott snorts, shaking his head as they turn onto the main road. “Like eighty seven times. In an hour.”

“Can’t say I wouldn’t do the same,” Stiles admits, and glances over to see Scott purse his lips and ultimately nod in agreement.

“Derek, though.” Scott sighs again, harder this time.

“Yeah,” Stiles admits, knuckles tightening a bit on the steering wheel. He adjusts his music, turning the volume down to better hear Scott without having to shout. “Greenberg’s never gonna be able to look at him without intense bowel movements involved.”

“Dude, I still can’t believe he wolfed out.” Scott stares at the side of his face, and at a glance Stiles sees that his eyes are wide, his eyebrows lifted curiously.

“I couldn’t believe it when you told me and I still can’t believe it now.”

Stiles purses his lips, tapping the fingers of his free hand along the doorframe. “In his defense, though, he was pretty distracted when it happened.”

Stiles keeps his gaze on the road in front of him, eyeing the heavy cloud cover. What had started as a light gray, foggy morning had fast become a roiling black storm by mid-afternoon. Thunder rippled in the distance, warning of its looming presence. He does not acknowledge the way that Scott’s lips turn into a knowing smile, or how he shifts his body slightly to better see Stiles’s expression.

“Right,” he drags the word out, trying and failing so miserably at being artfully suspicious. “He was distracted. Again.”

“Again?”

“You know, that last time? In the forest?”

“Oh, right. Right, right.”

“So…” Scott starts, and Stiles sighs, weak to Scott’s interrogation techniques because he’s so damned clumsy about it and okay maybe Stiles is sort of dying to tell him anyways but he doesn’t like making it so damn _easy_ , even for Scott. Okay, maybe he doesn’t mind so much.

Scott grins at Stiles’s sigh, knowing that he’d somehow managed to succeed in his venture for gossip. “So, maybe we were talking at the time. Upstairs.”

“Upstairs.” Scott repeats, and Stiles refuses to look at his expression.

“Yeah, we were alone.”

“Alone together.”

Stiles purses his lips, trying to hide his smile.

“Dude.” Scott chirps, and then again, “ _Dude!_ ”

“ _Okay_ ,” Stiles groans, but he’s full on smiling now, feeling light and happy and awesome. “So maybe we were sort of kissing right before that?”

“I _knew_ it!” Scott shouts, slamming a heavy palm down on the dashboard. Stiles yelps, leaning over to smack his arm.

“Hey! Be gentle with her! No abuse!”

But Scott’s not even listening to him anymore, too busy nodding his head and literally pounding a fist into the open palm of his other hand, like he’d finally solved the greatest mystery known to human kind.

“Bro,” he says, turning to punch Stiles lightly in the arm. He’s beaming, a reflection of the joy Stiles knows is stark on his own features. “You kissed _Derek_.”

“Hell yeah I did!” he cheers, pumping a fist. “Actually, technically, he kissed me.”

“Dude,” Scott says again, surprisingly delighted. “Way to go!”

Stiles puffs his chest out, feeling smug and satisfied in a way he never has before. He doesn’t admit to how Scott voicing the fact of it out loud, _you kissed Derek_ , makes his chest swell with joy, or how his ears tinge pink with heat. He sits up a little straighter in his seat, though, for the rest of the drive to Derek’s place where the pack is waiting for them. Scott changes the subject a few minutes later after they get their perfunctory exclamations of surprise and delight out, asking him about potential places he could take Kira for her birthday in a few months.

Stiles is all too happy to brainstorm with him, even if they’re way ahead of schedule. They toss ideas back and forth the entire trip to Derek’s warehouse, even after they’ve gotten out of the jeep with their overnight bags and head towards the front door to the building.

Stiles is jittery with excitement, mostly because nights like this are his favorite kinds of nights; the pack gets together at Derek’s place and basically has a giant sleepover disguised as an extended pack meeting. It usually begins with the business side of things, the actual meeting aspect, and then quickly dissolves into uproarious jokes and laughter with snacks in hand and mouth, before they slip a movie on and cuddle. Okay, maybe they don’t all cuddle each other, but it’s a close thing.

They all sort of just pile in the open space of Derek’s living room, right in front of the TV, with mounds of pillows and blankets. Derek doesn’t seem to mind, so long as they clean up when they’re ready to leave. Dude’s sort of a clean freak. Which always makes their sleepovers exciting because Stiles, Scott, and Erica, are all incredibly messy. Stiles tries to be on his best behavior, and he’s fairly certain Scott does too, but Erica is still an untamable force, even under Derek’s command. She only really listens to the alpha voice, and Derek has yet to bring that out for cleaning purposes, though there have been a few close calls in the past.

Isaac is the one to answer Derek’s door.

“Hey, Scott.” He greets, smiling. He lets his eyes slide over to Stiles, a cursory, knowing look in his eyes. “Stiles.”

“Rude?” Stiles replies, giving him a strange look. “Why do you have to say it like that? Why are you looking at me like that? Scott! What’s that expression doing on your face, too?”

Scott grins, shaking his head. Dismissing him with amusement. “Hey, Isaac.”

They step through the door and Stiles wonders what the conspiratorial look they share means, before getting distracted by a shirtless Derek walking down the winding staircase. His mouth plops open audibly, for just a moment, long enough for Isaac to see and smirk at. He turns and glares at the blond so as to not stare openly at the chiseled form of Derek’s upper body, the way the muscles shift enticingly beneath the skin with every movement he makes.

Stiles clears his throat and asks, “So what’s the pack discussion topic of the day? That’s wordy, man. Should I make that an acronym? The good ol’ PDTTD?”

Derek sighs from the hallway where he’s apparently disappeared, hopefully to retrieve a shirt so that Stiles doesn’t get a boner in the middle of a _pack meeting_. Even he has his limits.

“I think it’s safety again,” Scott surmises, rubbing at his jaw. Isaac nods, agreeing.

“Of course it is,” Stiles groans, already knowing what they’re in for. He settles himself comfortably in the corner of the plush couch, pushing as far into the leather as he can possibly get without submerging under the cushions.

Thankfully, the meeting is not a long one. Derek drones on and on about safety parameters and preparatory Next Steps, emphasizing cautious behavior with a pointed glance in Stiles’s direction. He used his eyebrows to cow any verbal dissent that may have begun to arise from Stiles’s corner; those eyebrows worked scarily well. Stiles had been officially cowed.

After that, though, the meeting fizzled out rather swiftly into jokes and inquiries into the movies planned for the night, a few puns and far too much laughter under Derek Hale’s roof. Someone may have mentioned the party and Derek _may_ have become a storm cloud hovering in the kitchen, a storm to which Stiles pretended he was not _drawn to_ , and eventually everyone ended up on the couch or the floor in front of _Austin Powers in Goldmember._

It doesn’t take long for the pack members to start dropping like flies. One by one, each of them fall asleep scattered around the room, most of them on the floor, though Isaac keeps waking up surprised and suspicious on the opposite corner of the couch, as if he doesn’t trust that he’s just fallen asleep but has in fact been left behind somewhere. Stiles gives him judgmental glances all night long, even when he knows he can’t see them. The guy has issues.

Stiles is the last to fall asleep, because of course he is. Insomnia is a thing that does not have a limit to its jurisdiction; it reaches him here, even when he’s surrounded by the comfort of his pack. He starts taking pictures of them sleeping and adding hilarious captions for his Instagram, because he’s _so_ bored, until the one time the flash accidentally goes off and he gets a blanket fist rock’em sock’em’d right into his melon. Not the best way for his lights to go out, but sometimes Boyd doesn’t know his own strength. Stiles is cool with it. If he wanted to get blanket punched by anyone, he’d choose Boyd every time.

He wakes up a few minutes later and is already taking pictures again, sans the flash, because not only is he incorrigible, but he’s also entertained. He captions a picture of Scott with a line of drool leaking down his chin, and Isaac smiling in his sleep beside him—when had he moved from the couch?—and feels Derek shift near him, coming awake. He takes one last look at Scott, with Isaac on one side and Kira curled up to him on the other, an arm around both of them, and turns to find Derek blinking at him.

“Sorry, man,” he whispers, saluting him. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Please don’t punch me with a blanket fist. There’s only so many times a guy can take a blanket bundle straight to the dome, know what I mean? But like, I’d prefer the blanket fist to a bare fist, though, especially your bare fist. I could also just blanket punch myself in the face? That seems like the best scenario for me right now.”

“Stiles,” Derek grunts, “shut up.”

Stiles nods, head bobbing. “Right, yeah. Shutting up.”

There’s a long moment of silence in which Stiles is fairly certain that Derek has fallen back to sleep, so he continues posting pictures and adding a pun per caption as is his style.

Derek’s voice, pitched low in what seems to be a combination of sleepiness and caution, surprises him.

He asks, “What? Can’t sleep?”

Stiles snorts. “The nightly grind. Insomnia at it’s finest. It’s cool.”

Even though it is so not cool and internally Stiles is shaking his fists at the sky and his luck and also probably the whole world, he maintains his blasé facade. Insomnia is not the worst thing in the world to have happened to him.

Derek doesn’t say anything; not that Stiles had expected him to. What would he have said? Probably something snappy and rude that Stiles would unquestionably throw a saucy rejoinder at. Instead, though, he just shuffles around where Stiles can’t see him, then pads into his kitchen to get a glass of water.

He comes back just as quietly as he’d left, knees cracking as he crouches down. He lays down close to Stiles, closer than he had been, and before he can even wonder if it’s on purpose or maybe a wonderful, beautiful mistake, he feels Derek slide up behind him. His arms, strong and careful, come around him, hesitant enough to knock the breath right out of him.

“Okay?” Derek asks, quiet as a dream, and Stiles whispers, “Yeah. Definitely, yeah.”

It’s not an insta-cure for his insomnia or anything; he doesn’t immediately fall asleep just because he’s in Derek Hale’s arms.

But it’s easier, and quicker than it otherwise might’ve been, and it’s better. It’s better in any way that it could be better, and then it’s better than that. And eventually, finally, Stiles does fall asleep, with his heart a lullaby’s jumping beat between them.

 

✧

 

Stiles wakes up to the flash of lightning, the boom of thunder, and the smell of pancakes.

Derek is no longer snuggled up behind him; that is immediately and disappointingly apparent, but he doesn’t let it bring him down. Instead, he focuses on the five different blankets he’s buried under, with each of his limbs on a different pillow. He can hear the relentless rain outside coming down in sheets against the side of the warehouse, can feel the chill of the air even from under his blanket cocoon.

“Nnngh?” he asks, voice lifting through the open space of the warehouse, wondering where everyone is. Someone close by snorts, and then Scott pokes his head into Stiles’s blurry line of sight.

“Hey bro!” he greets, beaming. He’s brighter than sunlight and Stiles has to blink under his shine. He’s smiling, though, because Scott is the best and also his favorite and he just loves that guy.

“G’morning,” he mutters, stretching out all of his limbs with a loud groan, then flopping limply against the hardwood floor in that same starfish position. He can hear people moving around in the kitchen and the low voices of the television, which he soon realizes is the _news_.

He groans, not even needing to look to make sure that it is in fact Derek who has put the news of all things on the television this early in the damned day.

“God, Derek, you’re so _old_.”

A moment’s pause, and then, “I’m old because I watch the news?”

“ _Yes._ ”

He glances over and sure enough, Derek’s perched on the edge of the couch, eyes on the news. He snorts before turning to Stiles, _just_ to roll his eyes at him. Stiles pulls a face, one that clearly says _very mature, man_ , and then surveys the rest of the room curiously, mind already moving forward and away from Derek’s ridiculously attractive and irritating face.

He finds Kira walking around in pajama shorts and one of Scott’s shirts, hair mussed to hell and looking like small creatures may be nesting in it. She greets him, sounding about as awake as he is. He grins at her tone and greets her properly, waggling his fingers at her in a silly little wave. She kneels down beside him and kisses his cheek, patting the spot afterward absentmindedly. Scott grins at them, and Derek frowns.

Isaac is sprawled on the corner seat of the couch, reading a book Stiles recognizes from Derek’s extensive supernatural library. Supernatural in content, not in power. Although Stiles wouldn’t put it past Derek to have a supernaturally powered library. Or a haunted library. Anything strange and probably dangerous, he’d suspect.

Derek keeps his eyes glued to the news but Stiles stares at him anyways, heart doing that stupid fluttering thing he’s come to associate with Derek. He wipes the drool from his lips and sits upright, knowing that his hair is a disaster. Speaking of small creatures—there may be a bird’s nest on his head. He runs a hand backwards through his hair, fluffing it up even more, and starts to verbally whine about breakfast.

From the kitchen, Erica sings, “I’ll make you breakfast, sweetheart.”

Stiles swallows, casting wide eyes in her direction. He can see Boyd trying to hide a grin behind his hand as he moves around her, both of them clearly visible through the space between the counters near the floor and the counters overhead.

“ _Erica_ ,” he gripes, and she sneers at him.

“A promise broken is a promise broken, babe. You owe me.”

“I do not know what you’re talking about.”

“Derek told me.”

“Did he now…” Stiles casts accusatory eyes Derek’s way, watches as he shrugs, flicking from one news channel to another.

He says, “She made me cinnamon rolls.”

“Betrayed!” Stiles exclaims, “by sweets!” He watches the corner of Derek’s lips quirk up, as if he can’t help it, and Stiles feels even _more_ betrayed. His mouth drops open and he glares at him, mouthing _rude_. Isaac glances up from his book and all Stiles can see are his eyes, piercing baby blues, but they’re gleaming at him in such a smug way that stiles can’t help but feel _triply_ betrayed.

He aggressively wipes at his nose, turning his eyes back to Scott, who’s actually sitting at the table with his textbook and notebook out, looking all studious in his black-framed glasses.

“You’re the best,” Stiles tells him simply, and Scott rewards him with another winning smile. Kira skirts by and drops a kiss against Scott’s temple, agreeing.

“Come over here, Stiles,” she says, setting a mug down in front of Scott, then another beside him. “I made you tea.”

“I love you,” Stiles responds, scrabbling to get to his feet. “You’re an angel and I’m keeping you.”

He thinks he hears a sigh from behind him, something exasperated that may have slipped out without someone’s consent. He chooses to ignore it in favor of throwing himself into the seat beside Scott. He glances at his friend’s AP biology textbook with open disgust.

“Oh, bro,” he sympathizes, and Scott nods.

“Tell me about it.”

“You’re doing really well so far!” Kira encourages, rubbing a soothing hand over Scott’s back. Stiles nods into his mug, taking a delicate sip. He hums at the fine taste of it, the slight heat sliding down his throat, the hint of honey settling on his tongue.

“So far,” Scott agrees, smiling proudly. Derek lumbers over from the living room, peering down over Scott’s shoulder and making a face at the work he sees. Stiles watches in blatant surprise as he tussles Scott’s hair, the most brotherly gesture he’s ever seen Derek do, _ever_ , and says, “Keep it up.”

He’s gone the next moment, tucked away behind the refrigerator door, sifting through the shelves for something to eat. Scott doesn’t seem to find this behavior weird, and neither does Kira, but Stiles feels his heart in his throat and he really, _really_ shouldn’t be turned on by the fact that Derek and his best friend are getting along so well.

It’s just! It’s a big deal, really, that they’re getting along at all. This is huge progress from where they’d started, with Scott being rightfully resentful, maybe even a bit disparaging towards Derek. And Scott hadn’t always been Derek’s favorite person, either. He is a consistent handful and Derek hasn’t always been so accommodating of the babysitting role that just so happens to accompany being a pack alpha.

But times are changing, as they say, and Stiles’s heart warms at the realization that not only have they moved past those bitter feelings of guilt and resentment, but have moved on to become good friends. It sounds so easy, saying it like that, but Stiles knows how hard it’s been and how hard they must’ve been working to get here.

Stiles feels himself continuously hiding a smile into his cup for the entirety of the next hour or so, as Scott slowly does his homework and Kira helps Boyd and Erica distribute the pancakes they’d made for everyone. Derek wanders in and out of several different places, which is confusing until Stiles realizes that he’s cleaning up the living room and returning his belongings to the appropriate rooms.

Eventually, everyone slowly begins to pack up and trickle out the door with farewells cast over their shoulders, as well as a few threats and meaningful glances thrown in Stiles’s direction, directly from Erica. He swallows, waving weakly as she sashays through the doorway.

Scott sighs and shuts his textbook, feeling accomplished. He stretches his back until a few pops release the tension in his spine, and then he and Kira are heading out, too. It’s not until they’re in the doorway that he realizes that he and Derek are going to be the only two people left in the warehouse. He decidedly does not panic, though it’s a close thing, and for once he does not stick his foot right into his mouth the moment they’re alone.

Instead, he does the polite thing and offers to help clean up because the pack might as well be a hurricane that constantly blows through Derek’s home and it’d be rude not to. Derek just shrugs, as though he didn’t care either way.

Stiles helps him with the remaining blankets, following him down the hall to his bedroom and stepping through the threshold with the same measure of caution and curiosity someone stepping into an alternate universe might exhibit.

Derek shoots him a look like he’s thinking the same thing, and also that Stiles is ridiculous, but Stiles only grins in response.

On their next trip back to Derek’s room, Stiles finds himself with an armful of blankets blocking his sight, and before he can even hope for the best in not breaking some sort of miscellaneous heirloom lying around Derek’s place, the man in question comes over and takes the blankets right from him. He slides his hands along Stiles’s elbows, down over his hands, a slow, seductive blanket trade, and doesn’t say anything about it.

As if that hadn’t been the sexiest blanket trade that Stiles has ever experienced in his life—and he’s experienced quite a few blanket trades—as if Derek was completely unaffected by the slow slide of his hands over Stiles’s skin, and what that did to Stiles, and what that made Stiles want to do to _Derek_.

Stiles pretends like he can ignore this situation for as long as he can, all the way up until Derek’s walking him out the door. He’s already got a foot out in the rain when his mouth plops open and he whirls around on Derek, intent on putting that damn foot in his mouth and embarrassing himself like he usually does because he _can’t_ ignore it and he can’t ignore the way he can practically feel Derek along the lines of his back, they’re standing so damn close.

He whirls, a wild swing of limbs, and the simple question of what the hell that blanket situation had _been_ becomes an overflow ramble of so, so much more than even Stiles had anticipated.

“Listen, I don’t know what you want from this or if the kiss was spur of the moment or whatever but I’ve been thinking about you nonstop for ages, and if I get a choice in the matter, which I definitely should, then I choose more kissing. In fact, I’d choose kissing right now, if that’s an available option. I don’t know what you want to call this,” he gestures clumsily between the two of them, teetering a little off-balance, and continues. “Or if you want to call it anything at all but I’d really like to know where we stand and—”

Derek is cautious and gentle and he moves slow enough that it’s not sudden, shouldn’t even be surprising, when he kisses Stiles.

His hand is a subtle weight on the hinge of Stiles’s jaw, the pad of his thumb tracing lightly back and forth over the skin of his cheek. He kisses slowly, taking his time, making a masterpiece of their lips pressing together, of his teeth biting light enough to barely be felt against Stiles’s upper lip. Stiles, still in shock that his rambling worked _so damn well_ , holy shit, realizes that he’s not even touching Derek, barely even responding to the kiss.

Before Derek gets any ideas, or feels any sort of doubt, or heaven forbid—begins to feel _guilty_ , Stiles lifts his hands to Derek’s waist, settles them there and tugs lightly at the thin material of Derek’s shirt. The door is open behind them, the rain pattering against Stiles’s back and wetting Derek’s hardwood flooring. That can’t be good for it, Stiles thinks, but he’s also definitely not going to be the one to mention that when he can instead just continue to kiss the hell out of Derek Hale.

Derek seems to agree, though, as he pushes a little until Stiles’s back is against the doorframe, allowing the rain to pelt against him, too. He doesn’t seem to mind; if anything the cool splashes against his skin only make him more passionate, his kisses still slow enough to drag Stiles into the undertow of passion he’s built since the first moment he’d pressed their lips together and begun to explore the feel of one another.

Stiles makes a breathy noise between them when Derek pulls back to nip at the edge of his jaw line, lips sliding down until he’s sucking and licking at the side of Stiles’s neck. Stiles tilts his head, gives him easier access, and tries to catch his breath. He’s shivering a little, now that they’re on the seam between indoors and outdoors. The storm glides over them, bringing up chills in its wake, but Stiles’s hands only clench harder in the soft cotton of Derek’s shirt, pulling him closer, needing him closer.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, when Derek moves in just the right way, a micro-movement that Stiles very well could have _missed_ if he hadn’t been paying attention, and feels the bulge of Derek’s erection against his thigh. Derek hums against his skin, utterly brazen, without a hint of self-consciousness.

Stiles, for his part, finds that to be equal parts admirable and sexy. He knows that Derek knows that Stiles is hard, has been hard since the moment Derek’s fingers touched the skin of his jaw, soft as satin and with the kind of confidence Stiles only ever dreams of exhibiting.

He lets Derek suck on his neck, knowing there’s going to be a mark, _wanting_ there to be a mark, and he can feel Derek smile against him, hands roaming over his sides, the dip in his spine.

Derek’s kisses are so damn calm, so controlled, but his body is as imposing and intent as it’s ever been and it’s driving Stiles up the wall. Literally; Derek is pushing him up against the wall just so that he can get better leverage, moving his leg between Stiles’s legs until Stiles is grinding against his thigh, hips bucking helplessly. Stiles is struggling to deal with the intense, all-encompassing kisses Derek keeps bringing back up to his lips coupled with the almost needy way that Derek’s body keeps crowding him in.

He wants to respond in kind, but his body is torn between kissing Derek as soft and slowly as he’s been kissing Stiles, or flying forwards with reckless abandon and ripping at his and Derek’s shirts to let them be skin to skin. Stiles’s lips are on Derek’s the next moment, decision still unmade but passion driving him to the tips of his toes, letting him get as close to Derek as he can. He brings his hands up and angles Derek’s head the way he needs to, so that he can bite at his full lower lip, smiling into the kiss when Derek groans and his hand tightens against Stiles’s thigh.

“I’m not,” Derek whispers, breathing unsteady. “I’m not sure what this is.”

Stiles blinks, looking up at Derek through his eyelashes for just a moment before dipping back down and savoring the swollen lower lip he’s been paying keen attention to. He brings it between his teeth, tugs gently, and then presses a few kisses to Derek’s top lip. Their bodies gradually settle, no longer pressing so close, no longer so insistent, but still heated, and intimate, and comfortable.

“Cool,” Stiles nods, “Me neither. But I _like_ it. I want it.”

He backs off slightly, expression watchful as Derek’s steel green eyes flicker over his face, lock back onto his eyes. They’re so beautiful that Stiles can’t seem to look away. Up this close, they appear almost clear, which sounds ridiculous but he’s looking right at them and they’re so light and bright and _beautiful_.

His eyes trace Derek’s features, so surprisingly open under his perusal, every line of him sharp and barbed except for his lips, soft and swollen. Stiles watches those lips shape the words he hadn’t realized he’d wanted, or needed, said aloud, and his heart warms with every syllable.

“I like _you_.” Derek whispers, and the sky is a piercing flash of white. Thunder booms overhead, making Stiles’s bones quake. “I want all of it with you.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles breathes, unable to hide the way his eyes are so wide and bright, or the way he can’t help but smile with teeth because this is unreal in the absolute best kind of way and he still can’t quite believe it.

“You’re not messing with me right? Fartin’ around? I can’t believe this. Make me believe this?”

Derek doesn’t smile, but it’s a close thing, and it’s there clearest in his sparkling eyes, so bright and incredible a thing that Stiles has to blink to ward off the sting of them. Derek lifts a hand from Stiles’s waist and cards his fingers through Stiles’s hair, slowly like he wants to savor it, carefully like Stiles is someone worth treasuring. Stiles swallows, wonders if he’s dreaming, if he’s actually still in the living room under five blankets and surrounded by drowsy pack members, dreaming about their alpha, dreaming about dreams coming true.

But no, he’s here, soaked to the bone with Derek Hale’s hands on his skin and thunder a constant, roaring bystander to this incredible moment in his life. This is real. This is _real_.

Derek uses his grip on Stiles’s hair to pull him forward until their foreheads rest together, his magnificent eyes sliding shut. Stiles stares wide-eyed at him, so close he’s nearly cross-eyed, but he can’t look away, can barely put stock in this situation at all.

“Stiles,” Derek whispers, and it sounds like he wants to laugh; a combination of amusement and nerves. “I’m yours. Now tell me you’re mine.”

Stiles’s heart is a stone in the open ocean of his chest, sinking slowly, slowly into the depthless warmth of requited love. He’s never felt this warm, from the inside out, in every part of him. Not ever. But then again, he’s also never been in love like this, and he’s never been loved _back_ , not like this, not in any way that could ever compare to _this_.

I like you. I want all of it with you.

_I’m yours. Now tell me you’re mine._

Stiles’s laughter bubbles up and out of him, his smile so wide his cheeks are already sore. He rubs their foreheads together until Derek opens his eyes, twin pools of effortlessly effervescent gleaming green, lips curling into a small smile as Stiles nuzzles against him.

“I mean _yeah_ ,” Stiles laughs, nearly breathless with joy. “Yeah, hell yeah. You’re mine. Oh, shit, you’re so totally mine. I’m yours and holy _fuck_ we’re ours. We’re each other’s’!”

“Yeah,” Derek snorts, and shifts ever so slightly to rub the tip of his nose against the button of Stiles’s. “We’re all those things.”

Stiles, relentlessly content and one step away from bouncing on his feet, blurts, “We’re gonna be so damn awesome together, big guy.”

Derek taps his knuckles lightly against the edge of Stiles’s jaw. His expression is a curious, enticing mix of fond and sincere, every part of him exposed. Stiles knows, instantly, that this? This is what had first encouraged Stiles to fall in love with Derek Hale.

Blatant, unabashed sincerity. Regardless of the company or the circumstance, Derek will not lie, even if it softens the words, even if it works against them in a battle situation. Derek remains true to himself through and through, and that sincerity bleeds out to those closest to him.

Stiles knows without a single doubt in his mind that he will never have to worry about Derek lying to him. Not even about his feelings.

Derek’s voice is as soft and certain as a sunrise, his gaze unwavering.

He says, “Damn right.”

And Stiles leans into the warmth of him, right there in the doorway to his home, with thunder and lightning the only present witnesses to this new, blooming love between them.

 

✧

 

The next time they’re all together, it’s not for a meeting, or an emergency.

It’s a free day. A _play day_.

They spend it in a little-known but much-appreciated section of the woods outside of the Hale house; a wide-open clearing with a wide, deep stream running around the edges, just barely touching the copse of trunks and roots around it.

Erica and Isaac spend an hour wolfed out and wrestling in the center, bodies turning over and over one another as Boyd, their reclining, sun-bathing referee, calls out points. Scott and Kira swim in the stream in nothing but their unmentionables, which is such a common thing nowadays that no one even gives them a second look. It’s probably because they’re so innocent, though, that no one questions it. Even almost naked, they simply laugh and splash and play, kissing around smiles. Even still, Stiles likes to give them a hard time.

“Leave room for Jesus!” He calls, shouting to be heard from the tree line where he’s relaxing with a book in his lap; not a tome, not an informational, non-fictional tome, but an actual fictional _book_. Stiles still can’t believe it, either.

Derek snorts from somewhere beside him, appearing suddenly from the trees. Stiles pretends like his heart doesn’t race at the sight of him, that he isn’t staring as Derek strides directly towards him along the edge of the trees, that he isn’t thinking of Derek’s doorframe pressed against his back, and Derek’s lips pressing against his throat, hands all over him.

“Nice of you to show up, sour patch.” He pretends, too, that his voice is steady.

Derek comes to a stop beside him, still standing.

“What are they,” he says, ignoring Stiles’s welcome and responding to the shout he couldn’t have missed. “Middle schoolers?”

Stiles snorts through his nose and sounds far less dignified than Derek had. He wonders how he does that, how he somehow manages to make the rush of air being blown through nostrils sound dignified. Stiles is willing to take notes.

“Have you _met_ Scott?” Stiles replies, expression expectant. After a moment, Derek nods, giving him that one.

Stiles, not enjoying the way he has to crane his neck to look Derek in the eyes, pointedly pats the ground beside him until Derek’s watching the movement with disdainful eyebrows.

“What?” Stiles laughs, incredulous. “Afraid to get a little dirty? Or are you just afraid to get a little dirty with me?”

Something flashes in his eyes, setting Stiles’s spine straight in an instant. He traces Stiles’s features with a bright gaze, lips almost curling into a smile.

“I’m not afraid,” Derek says, and he lowers himself down beside Stiles, until he’s leaning against the tree with his long legs outstretched in front of him. Stiles ignores his comment—he’s not going anywhere near those implications while the entire pack is present—and reaches out to brush at a wet spot on Derek’s white t-shirt.

“So? What took you so long, big guy?”

Derek glances at the wet spot, then at Stiles’s hand, and shrugs.

“I washed the Camaro.”

Stiles’s eyebrows rise. “And that had to be done today? On pack play day?”

Derek rolls his eyes, resting his head back against the sturdy trunk of the thickly set tree they’re leaning against. He watches his betas wrestling just in front of them for a minute, and Stiles can almost feel the happiness radiating off of him. There’s still a measure of caution, lined in the slightly tensed hold of his shoulders, that Stiles doesn’t think will ever go away. Not now, with Derek as the alpha, with so much responsibility on those shoulders, and so many lives in his hands.

“What does it matter?” he grunts, sounding put out. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Stiles leans back against the tree and shakes his head, but he’s smiling, can’t help but smile.

“You’re the worst,” he laughs. “Your puppies were worried about you.”

“They’re not my _puppies_.” Derek growls, disturbed.

“Debatable,” Stiles says, raising a finger in the air. “But regardless, they _were_ worried.”

“Whatever.” Derek says, but it’s clear that he has been successfully chided.

“You’ll just have to make it up to them or something, right Rambo? I suggest ice cream.”

“Rambo?” Derek turns, gives him a look that shows exactly what he thinks of the nickname. Stiles doesn’t know why he’s surprised, or why this nickname of the hundred or so Stiles has given him stands out as questionable above the rest. He just shrugs, grinning brightly. “Ice cream?”

Stiles nods, cementing it into fact. “Ice cream.”

He doesn’t expect it, but Derek nods, says, “Okay.”

Stiles, wide-eyed and cheery, turns to him and doesn’t know what he’s going to say, or do; just that he wants to hug him and maybe kiss him, when he hears footsteps heading their way. Derek stiffens beside him, seemingly realizing how close they’re sitting and how their expressions must look to the approaching pack members.

Almost as if they’d been silently called, Erica, Isaac, and Boyd all move into a half-moon arc in front of them, sitting and sprawling. Stiles glances over Isaac’s shoulder and sees Kira ushering Scott out of the water, pulling him up and out with both hands clasped together. They’re laughing, the sound like the first day of spring, bright and refreshing and promising of new things.

“Whatcha talkin’ ‘bout?” Erica says, stretching out on her back until her head is resting pillowed on Boyd’s thigh. He’s leaning back on his hands, legs outstretched and almost touching Stiles’s. Stiles tells himself that this is deliberate and a blatant show of their friendship.

Isaac sits cross-legged and hunched, closer to Derek than he is to Stiles; he’s threading long strands of grass together in what seems to be some sort of bracelet. At Erica’s inquiry, however, he tilts his head to the side quite like a curious puppy, and pins Stiles in place with his arctic stare.

Stiles shrugs, and pretends like his cheeks aren’t heating right there under their hot little gazes. He doesn’t even have anything to be nervous—or embarrassed!—about, but he feels like they’re expectant in a way that he isn’t prepared for, has not had the time to examine or understand.

“Just talkin’ about _someone’s_ tardiness,” he says, lifting a finger to simultaneously rub at his upper lip and point directly at Derek in what he’s certain is an incredibly inconspicuous gesture. Derek sighs beside him and Stiles swallows, turns to him like he hasn’t a clue he’s been caught. Derek stares at him with the dead fish eyes look he gets when he’s exceeded his exasperation quota of the day. Stiles’s expression says: _I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t_ me _._

“I don’t know why you bother,” Isaac pipes up, shaking his head.

Erica laughs, agreeing. “Some things just aren’t in our bag of tricks. Your bag, honey? Does not include subtlety.”

“What!” Stiles gasps, giving them both a look. “I can be subtle! I can be _so_ subtle!”

Boyd, silent up until this moment, says, “No, you can’t.”

Stiles, betrayed, opens his mouth to argue when Erica says, “It’s not that big a deal. It’s something you and Derek have in common.”

At this, Stiles’s mouth snaps shut and Derek stiffens even more, sitting a little more upright. Stiles glances over, sees the wavering threat in one of his lifted eyebrows, and swallows.

Derek’s voice comes out low and rough, a promise and a threat. Stiles is almost entirely certain he wouldn’t actually attack anyone, but then again, he’s never really been that great at predicting Derek’s moves.

“Say again?”

It’s Isaac who speaks this time.

He says, “Subtlety. Not your strongest point.” And then he glances immediately to Stiles, eyes flickering between the two of them, lips twisting in one corner.

“Hey,” Stiles frowns, glancing around at all of them. Just then, though, Scott and Kira make their way to their half-circle and squelch into their own relaxed seats, still surprisingly uncaring of their state of undress. They’re soaking wet but not shivering, which isn’t surprising, considering the bright blue skies overhead and the relentless touch of the sun’s heat on their skin. No one even glances at them.

“’Sup,” Scott greets, reaching over to Kira as she reaches back to him, their fingers intertwining on her thigh.

Stiles glances up and thinks to explain the situation to Scott and also maybe recruit him to his side of things, but he stops short at the expression on Scott’s face. It’s that same knowing look that the others have, one that’s somehow equal parts amused, speculative, and protective. Stiles is _so_ damn lost.

“What the hell is even going on right now?” he mutters, expecting answers. Instead, he only gets a partly sympathetic look from Scott, and the roll of Isaac’s eyes.

“Clueless,” Boyd mutters, expelling a sigh.

Erica nods, eyes squinting against the sunlight. “Incredibly so.”

Kira, apparently eager to dispel the awkward tension in the air even though Erica and Isaac seem to be enjoying it, clears her throat. She glances at Derek for a moment, then at Stiles. She smiles, a small and private thing.

“We’re happy for you,” she admits, and Stiles can see the brightness of her expression just under her skin, lighting her up from the inside. It takes a strong, genuine kind of happiness to do that to a person—to make them _glow_. He frowns, eyes flickering around the circle, catching a similar yet muted occurrence in every one of the others.

“Totally,” Scott agrees, bobbing his head. “Like one hundred and ten percent.”

Erica rolls her eyes. “Fun-suckers.” But then she grins at Stiles, and nods her head to agree.

Scott and Kira both frown at her, twin forces of lighthearted disapproval.

“You _just_ said that they’re clueless,” Kira says, and ignores both the affronted noises that come from Derek and Stiles respectively. She casts them an apologetic look but continues. “You have to be straight with them about it.”

“Like they’ve been straight with us?” Isaac snorts, halfway to derisive.

“Like they’ve been straight at _all_.” Erica laughs, suddenly cheerful at her own amusement. It causes Boyd to smile, too, and then like it’s contagious, everyone else around them is suddenly grinning, too. Stiles feels himself smiling just for the hell of it, before he realizes exactly what she’s implying, what they’re _all_ implying.

“Okay, wait, you’ve all known that I was bisexual for _years_. How is this news?”

“Of course we’ve known,” Erica rolls her eyes, sighing. “It’s obvious. And you told us.”

“What is equally obvious,” Isaac starts.

“But hasn’t been told to us explicitly,” Erica continues, flipping her long hair out and over Boyd’s legs, trying to get comfortable.

“Is news of a relationship.”

The latter had been Scott, of all people, his best friend _Scott_. And now, all of them are looking at Derek, eyes piercing and smiles muted. Stiles, suddenly realizing, suddenly _understanding_ , slowly turns to Derek with his mouth agape.

“Are we in a relationship?” he blurts, and then flushes down to the nape of his neck because _wow_ , if it hadn’t been already, the cat’s definitely out of the bag now, isn’t it?

Derek glares at him, then at everyone else in turn, before suddenly deflating. Even his tense shoulders, held so strong and tight, relax as he curls back against the tree even more.

“When did you know?” he asks, ignoring Stiles again. He sounds resigned, if not a little relieved.

Erica doesn’t hold any of her punches. “When did we know you guys were in love with each other? Or when did we know you guys were dating?”

Derek flinches, the most miniscule of reactions, and Stiles feels his mouth gaping open even wider.

“What!” he yelps, but everyone ignores him. Again. He’s really going to have to have words about this.

Erica scoffs, and Boyd says, “It wasn’t difficult.”

Scott, _Scott_ of all people, nods his head. Stiles wonders if he’s been teleported into an alternate universe somehow, if maybe he’s still dreaming somewhere, if he’s died and gone to some weird fucked up heaven. What they’re saying, what they’re _implying_ —he doesn’t have the words. For once in his overly muddled, sarcastic and motor-mouthed life, he doesn’t have words.

The experience is novel. And frustrating.

His best friend says, “We’ve known you two were in love with each other for years.”

“In love?” Stiles squeaks, “with _each other_?”

He balks, his mind racing around the hint of a possibility of reciprocated love. For _years_. If it is true, if Derek has actually, truly loved him for as long as he’s loved Derek—or longer, what if he’s loved him _longer_ holy _shit_ —then Stiles has been roiling in loneliness and self-doubt and a sex-less lifestyle uselessly. For years.

Derek merely scowls, arms crossing over his chest.

“That’s—”

“Don’t you _dare_ say ‘bullshit.’” Erica snarls, and Stiles watches the wolf in her eyes bleed through in an instant. Boyd doesn’t straighten or move, but his eyes peer open and he watches Derek carefully, silently. Isaac, still hunched over his lap and twiddling with his grass bracelet, lets it fall to the ground. He tilts his head and studies the lines of Derek’s face, ever watchful.

Scott watches Derek carefully, eerily similar to Boyd though far less understated about it. Kira, however, watches Stiles. There’s something about the look she’s giving him, something protective and reassuring. Somehow, it works.

And then the pack starts talking, seemingly all at once, continuing and finishing one anothers’ sentiments, working together like some sort of hive mind. It’s all so utterly baffling that Stiles can do nothing but flick his gaze to each person as they speak, eyes wide and hands shaking, wondering if his heart can pound right through his chest.

“The red tracksuit. The pool.”

“Outside the sheriff’s station. The jeep.”

“The hospital. The elevator.”

“When you got distracted in the forest. With Boyd.”

“The,” Scott starts, hesitating enough to send an apologetic glance in Derek’s direction that Stiles doesn’t have the first clue how to break down and understand. “The dream.”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Stiles exclaims, expression and heart so tied up in knots he doesn’t even know what else to say. He feels like his brain has, somehow, impossibly, become even more erratic and cluttered than it usually is—a feat he had never thought nor wanted to be possible.

“It’s a lot to dump on you,” Kira admits hurriedly, raising her hands as if to quell any impending anger or frustration. He’s neither angry nor frustrated; he’s simply _overwhelmed._

Scott continues, saying, “You can be honest with us.” He flicks his stare to Derek, then, something pointed and unflinching in his gaze, in the strong, clenched set of his slightly crooked jaw. “You always have been, before.”

Stiles turns to study Derek’s expression, to ask him if he knows what the hell is going on and how the pack knows about such specific memories—the latter of which he doesn’t even know, or understand, but pauses at Derek’s expression, the openness of his stare.

It takes him a few moments, a few clenches of his jaw, but then finally Derek seems ready to speak. Before he can, though, Stiles is jumping down the throats of all of them, unable to whirl out of control _silently_ any longer. All the words he wants to spout aren’t at the ready, but most of them are, and he flings them into the open air with a careless grace not unusual for his style of speech.

“How do you know all of that? What do you mean ‘the dream,’ and also, before I forget, this is so fucked up. How are you all speaking so, like, connected? If you tell me you guys have some sort of telepathic connection you’ve never mentioned before, some sort of supernatural hive mind Groupthink shit, I’m going to be _so pissed_.”

“It’s not a hive mind.” Kira says.

Erica explains. “We’ve just discussed this a lot.” She glances Derek’s way. “We’ve…heard a lot.”

Stiles follows her glance, lands on Derek’s suffering scowl. “…Heard…a lot?”

Isaac flicks his thumb at Derek and says, “Surprisingly chatty, remember?”

Stiles is intimately familiar with Derek’s scowl, his thunder cloud reaction. He resists the urge to settle his hand on Derek’s knee, to try to calm his storm.

Boyd says, “For longer than we let on.”

Stiles’s eyes grow wider, so wide he’s certain he must look unhinged. Derek takes advantage of his moment of shocked silence and finally clears his throat, prepared to speak. He surprisingly calm, for someone with a scowl like _that_ , and a jaw that seems bent on breaking some teeth. His own, or maybe, someone else’s.

“So you’ve known that I,” and then he hesitates, chokes on the unspoken word, swallows it back down into silence. If the pack’s strange approach and all of their implications hadn’t been enough to send his mind reeling, Derek’s almost-admission of what he’s certain had been _love_ finishes the job.

“You’ve known since the beginning.” He finishes, glancing around at each member’s nod.

Isaac adds, “Yeah, we knew. Not very subtle, remember?”

Derek seems bewildered by this, as if this is news. Even Stiles wants to laugh at him; but then he remembers his apparently blatant lack of subtlety, too, and stifles it down to a small smile.

“This is some freaky shit,” he’s casual about the delivery of this comment, pulling a face that’s both amused and distraught at the verbal whiplash of the entire conversation.

“Now that we’ve got it out in the open,” Erica leads, her grin turning sly. “We’ll stop with the interrogation. We do have a question, though. It’s more like simple curiosity, really.”

When Derek doesn’t say a word, probably still too baffled to even know how to make words again, Stiles bobs his head. He’d decided somewhere in the last few moments of conversation that it’d be better, easier to just roll with the punches in this situation. So instead of asking the armada of questions he has, he pushes them away and prepares to answer the one question the pack has.

Isaac says, “So, we’ve known you guys were into each other since the beginning,”

“But not yet _into_ each other, right?” Erica grins; she can’t quite seem to keep her inner sleaze at bay. Stiles ignores her, the frown on his lips, and the blush on his cheeks. Derek makes a noise like he’s swallowed incorrectly.

She smiles, red lips wide and hitched in amusement. “Nevermind.”

Kira, all business, states, “You know when we knew.”

Isaac says, “Now we want to know when you knew.”

The question, when it’s finally voiced as one, comes from Scott.

“When did you two finally realize you loved each other?”

Stiles feels his mouth open, and close, and open again. He swallows the lump he feels in his throat, flickers his wide eyes around the group of attentive stares, ends up glancing to Derek, seeking direction, or distraction, or anything that isn’t the loaded air between the pack and them. Derek’s scowl is something new and thoughtful, but no longer is there any aspect of him that seems actively threatening. If anything, he only appears grumpily contemplative, and just this side of irritated at being accosted like this.

Stiles, on the other hand, feels more than just _slightly_ accosted.

Maybe it’d been the way their friends had gone about this, which he understands, he does; they’ve been hiding this poorly-kept secret—that neither Derek nor Stiles had even known _themselves_ , what the _hell_ —for years. It makes sense that now, at the turning point, when they’re finally able to say something about it, they do so with verve. With so much verve. Endless, impossible amounts of ball-busting, heart-wrenching verve.

Stiles has to hand it to them, they’ve got style. Jumbled and nonsensical and a little bit past _incredibly annoying_ , but style nonetheless.

But that doesn’t mean that he can’t be a little flustered about it, either.

“Woah, hey, time out,” he says, sitting up straight and holding his hands out, resting the palm of his right hand atop the fingertips of his left. “Listen, there’s been a lot of secretive shit going on and even though we kind of sort of half-mashed it all out here in this incredibly disjointed and inefficient way—typical us, to be honest—there’s still a lot of unknowns running around? And? Maybe that’s a good thing, maybe not, but there is one thing that I know for sure: Whatever it is that’s between Derek and I, it’s ours. Good on all y’all for figuring out what we apparently hadn’t, and might not have ever known oh my God, you all probably kick _ass_ at Clue, but.”

He pauses, glances up to make sure that everyone is taking him seriously. Scott seems to know what’s coming, doesn’t seem to mind it; he wraps an arm around Kira’s shoulder and pulls her in closer to him, resting his head against hers, the picture of comfort.

“But,” he repeats, consolidating his point. “We deserve a little privacy.”

There’s a moment of silence, the movement of Erica opening her mouth, most likely to dispute the point, and then Derek’s voice, silencing everything around them.

“Yes,” he says, making eye contact with each of them in turn, as if to exemplify the order of his words, as he supports Stiles’s words. “We do.”

Stiles expects a little mutiny, since everyone seems to have been waiting so long for this; he expects them to not really want to lie down and take it now that they’ve gotten so far. They surprise him, though, as they so often do. Erica shrugs her shoulders and hops to her feet with cat-like grace, flashing a winning smile at the both of them as she helps Boyd to his feet. Their fingers intertwine as they head back to the center of the plain, casting two last smug looks back at Derek just because they can.

Scott and Kira help each other up, then each offer Isaac a hand as well. He lifts himself between them and bumps into Scott’s side, a friendly pressure, before heading over towards the stream with Kira beside him. Scott lingers behind, eyes glancing between Stiles and Derek, his smile hesitant but pleased.

“I mean it,” he whispers, even though Stiles is certain everyone is still within an appropriate distance to be able to hear the words. “ _We_ mean it. We’re happy about it. About you guys, together.” And then he turns, moves his hands as if to tuck them in his pockets only to realize that he’s in nothing more than his navy boxers. He hustles over to the stream and immediately grapples with Isaac until the both of them upend into the water, laughing and spitting. Kira wades in after them, her laughter the soothing cadence of wind chimes.

It’s been a while since Stiles has looked over at Derek, but he does so now, gauging his reaction, studying the lines between his eyebrows, the tick of his jaw. The sun pours over them like liquid gold, brightening everything in their visual range, turning the very air between them into flickering flakes of golden dust and debris. Stiles watches the way it touches down on the hollow of Derek’s throat, pools there like treasure, and licks his lips.

“I don’t even have words,” he finally says, trying to distract himself from how beautiful Derek is, right there beside him, close enough to touch. It seems to do the trick of breaking Derek out of his spell. He snorts, and glances over at Stiles from under his eyelashes. In the sunlight, his eyes are the brightest green Stiles has ever seen them, golden around his pupils and shining like tokens of grace.

“That’s a first.”

“Maybe,” Stiles allows. “Possibly.”

“You’re still talking.”

“I’m either going to talk, or I’m going to scream. My mind is still whirring around the fact that the pack knows so dang much about my business—our business. Which reminds me, what the hell is our business? Apparently we’re in a relationship? Who knew!”

Derek glares at him, and reaches out without hesitation to slide his fingers through Stiles’s, resting their palms together over his thigh.

“We knew.”

“I _hoped_ ,” Stiles corrects him, then swallows rather heavily. “Is it? I mean, is this okay? You’re okay with this? For the record, I think this is awesome.”

“Stiles.” Derek breathes, sighs around his name. He seems prepared to make another sassy comment until he sees the self-consciousness slipping through Stiles’s amber eyes, something he tries hard to mask but can’t seem to fully extinguish. He just can’t quite believe it, can’t cement the words in his mind let alone in real _life_. But the words, they feel right, and good, and warm against Stiles’s chest; he wants to believe them.

He stares into Derek’s eyes and watches the sassy amusement fade before a word can escape him, watches the open perusal of his own expression through the flickering movement of Derek’s stare. His lips part, and his eyes fall to Stiles’s mouth, his throat, the spot where his pulse beats rapidly, picking up speed. Derek lifts a hand to the spot, covers it with his heated palm, and leans forwards until their foreheads are touching. He breathes Stiles’s name across his lips, then whispers, “Shut up.”

Derek Hale loves Stiles Stilinski.

Stiles Stilinski loves Derek Hale.

The words are there, wrapping around the soul of him, real and nearly tangible, and Stiles feels lighter and less burdened than he ever has in his entire life. Derek leans in and presses their lips together, smiling into their kiss, and then smiling more when Stiles’s hands comes up to card through his hair just above his nape, anchoring them together.

Maybe they’d fallen in love with each other at different times, with different moments standing out to each of them, but remaining equally as integral to the small change in their hearts—something powerful enough, beautiful enough to reach the deepest parts of them, both of which had gone so long without being touched.

And maybe it had taken them some time to realize it, and more time to accept it, but eventually they made their way there, together, and remained.

The way Stiles sees it, they’ve just been working two different paths to get to the same goal. Each path had been riddled with various surprises, countless confusions, death-defying occurrences, and even some monsters along the way.

But Stiles understands, now. It’s not that complicated. It never has been.

They love each other. 

Nothing has ever been simpler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading this silly mess :' ) I had never intended for it to be this long, but it got away from me. I know there are a lot of elements I could improve and flesh out, but given that I wrote this in arguably the busiest and most stressful time of my entire life, solely for relaxation time (I probably should've slept instead, b u t), I think I did okay. Even still, I had so much fun writing it! Hopefully, I'll have more time and more energy to dedicate to another story for Derek and Stiles, to do them their due justice of hilarity and solemn, growing love. 
> 
> Hope this story made you smile, at the very least! Thank you for stopping by and reading through it <3


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